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MITYA’S  LOVE 


i t y a' s J^o  v e 

by 

IVAN  BUNIN 


Translated  from  the  French 
BY  MADELAINE  BOYD 

With  an  Introduction 
BY  ERNEST  BOYD 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


/ 


COPYRIGHT,  I926, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE 
UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


“The  soul  would  have  no  rainbow 
Had  the  eyes  no  tears ” 


Madame  Madeleine  Boyd  wants  to  acknowledge 
her  debt  in  the  preparing  of  this  translation  to  her 
collaborator,  John  O’Neal,  and  to  Miss  Helen 
Smith  for  her  comparison  of  it  with  the  Russian 
text. 


INTRODUCTION 
By  Ernest  Boyd 

Ivan  Alexeyevich  Bunin,  whom  Gorky 
has  described  as  the  greatest  living  Rus- 
sian writer,  was  born  at  Voronezh,  in 
1870,  the  son  of  an  old  family  of  coun- 
try gentry,  distinguished  in  art  and  poli- 
tics. “All  my  forebears  were  country 
gentlemen,  closely  attached  to  the  soil 
and  the  people,  and  so  were  my  parents, 
who  owned  property  in  central  Russia, 
in  those  fertile  steppes  where  the  former 
Moscovite  Tsars,  as  a protection  against 
the  Tartar  invasions  from  the  South,  set 
up  a rampart  of  colonies  recruited  from 
every  province  in  the  country.  Thanks 
to  that  fact,  this  region  saw  the  develop- 
ment of  the  richest  of  all  Russian  dia- 
lects and  produced  almost  all  our  great 
9 


10  INTRODUCTION 
writers  beginning  with  Turgenev  and 
Leo  Tolstoy.” 

Bunin’s  childhood  and  youth  were 
spent  almost  entirely  in  the  country  on 
his  father’s  estates,  and  in  the  town  of 
Yelets,  so  frequently  the  scene  of  his  sto- 
ries, where  he  went  to  school  before  pro- 
ceeding to  the  University  of  Moscow. 
“I  began  to  write,  in  verse  and  prose, 
rather  early,  and  my  works  were  printed 
at  an  early  date.  When  I published  my 
books  they  were  usually  composed  of 
prose  and  poetry,  some  original,  others 
translated  (from  the  English).  If  these 
writings  were  divided  according  to  kinds, 
I should  have  four  volumes  of  my  own 
verse,  two  of  translations,  and  six  of 
prose.  Criticism  was  not  slow  to  notice 
my  works,  and  subsequently  they  were 
crowned  several  times,  receiving  in  par- 
ticular the  Pushkin  Prize,  the  highest 


INTRODUCTION  11 

award  of  the  Russian  Academy  of  Sci- 
ence. In  1909  that  institution  elected  me 
one  of  its  twelve  honorary  Academi- 
cians, a distinction  corresponding  to  that 
of  the  forty  French  ‘Immortals.’” 

He  was  actually  twenty-one  when  his 
first  book — a volume  of  verse — was  pub- 
lished at  Orel,  the  capital  of  his  native 
province  and  the  birthplace  of  Turgenev. 
Twelve  years  later,  in  1903,  Bunin  was 
awarded  the  Pushkin  Prize  for  literature, 
and  had  taken  his  place  in  the  front  rank 
of  Chekhov’s  successors.  After  the  death 
of  Chekhov,  in  1904,  and  the  Revolution 
of  1903,  Vladimir  Korolenko  survived  as 
the  representative  of  the  older  school  of 
romantic  fiction,  but  he  had  no  followers 
of  importance.  The  leadership  of  the 
new  school  of  Realism  fell  to  Maxim 
Gorky,  about  whom  were  grouped  the 
majority  of  the  rising  young  novelists, 


12  INTRODUCTION 
some  of  whom  are  known,  in  varying  de- 
grees, to  English-speaking  readers:  Alex- 
ander Kuprin,  Leonid  Andreev,  Sergey 
Gusev-Orenburgski,  V.  Veresayev,  and 
Ivan  Bunin.  All  of  these  writers,  at  one 
time  or  another,  have  been  translated  into 
English,  but  only  Kuprin  and  Andreev 
have  achieved  any  measure  of  recogni- 
tion in  England  or  America  correspond- 
ing to  their  enormous  popularity  in  Rus- 
sia. Yet,  by  common  consent  of  compe- 
tent critics,  Bunin  is  held  to  be  the  equal 
of  any  other  member  of  the  Gorky  group, 
and  the  superior,  in  the  estimation  of 
some  judges,  including  Gorky  himself. 

That  group  was  essentially  radical  in 
tendency.  It  was  composed  of  what  a 
German  critic  has  called  “the  stormy 
petrels  of  the  Revolution,”  and  of  that 
tendency  there  is  little  trace  in  the  author 
of  Mityas  Love  and  The  Gentlemen 


INTRODUCTION  13 


from  San  Francisco — to  mention  two  of 
Bunin’s  most  famous  and  most  dissimi- 
lar but  characteristic  works.  Although 
associated  with  Gorky’s  famous  Znanie 
publishing  house,  where  for  many  years 
all  his  books  were  issued,  he  had  no  more 
in  common  with  the  revolutionary  school 
than  with  their  antithesis,  the  group 
known,  for  convenience  of  distinction,  as 
the  Symbolists  and  Decadents.  In  fact, 
he  is  sometimes  classified  with  the  latter: 
with  Merezhkovsky,  Bryusov,  Kuzmin, 
and  Sologub.  These  writers,  however 
diverse  intrinsically,  represented  a reac- 
tion against  the  Marxian  conception  of 
literature,  the  constant  preoccupation 
with  social  problems,  and  the  sacrifice  of 
form  to  content.  Unpolitical  and  unreal- 
istic, it  was  inevitable  that,  towards  {he 
end  of  the  last  century,  they  should  be 
classed  as  Symbolists  or  Decadents. 


14  INTRODUCTION 

Ivan  Bunin  was  not  really  identified 
with  either  of  the  movements,  for  he  con- 
tributed to  the  Symbolist  review,  North- 
ern Flowers,  although  not  a Symbolist 
poet,  just  as  he  was  published  by  Znanie, 
although  not  one  of  the  “Podmaximki,” 
or  “Comrades  of  Maxim,”  as  Gorky’s  au- 
thors were  called  in  jocular  allusion  to 
their  revolutionary  creed.  His  aloof,  in- 
dependent position  may  explain,  to  some 
extent,  his  tardy  recognition.  Outside 
Russia,  at  least,  we  know  more  of  the 
Znanie  writers  than  of  their  other  con- 
temporaries, and  in  succession  to  the 
former  we  have  welcomed  Artzybashev, 
Ropshin,  and  Alexey  N.  Tolstoy  rather 
than  Andrey  Bely  or  Alexey  Remizov. 
Bunin  himself  seems  to  indicate  this 
when  he  says:  “For  many  reasons  I 
waited  a long  time  before  achieving  a 
certain  popularity.  After  my  first  writ- 


INTRODUCTION  15 


ings  were  published,  during  a consider- 
able period,  I wrote  and  published  only 
poetry.  I kept  out  of  politics  and  did 
not  touch  in  my  work  upon  political 
questions.  I belonged  to  no  literary 
school,  and  did  not  call  myself  a Decadent 
or  a Symbolist,  a Romanticist  or  a Natu- 
ralist; I wore  no  mask  and  brandished  no 
brightly  colored  banner.  . . 

Even  Bunin’s  early  prose  was  essen- 
tially poetic  in  quality  and  mood:  in 
Ore  the  invasion  of  rural  life  by  industry 
is  symbolised  by  the  fate  of  an  old 
wooden  cross  which  has  stood  for  years 
in  the  fields  and  has  watched  the  forests 
gradually  disappear  from  the  horizon, 
has  felt  the  winds  blowing  drier  and  hot- 
ter, and  seen  the  land  come  less  and  less 
under  cultivation.  In  the  end  there  are 
no  more  workers  plowing  and  sowing, 
but  men  erecting  huts  and  drilling  into 


16  INTRODUCTION 


the  ground.  The  cross,  with  its  black- 
ened picture  of  the  Virgin,  has  fallen  into 
decay.  It  is  no  longer  appropriate  to 
such  a scene  and  is  broken  up  for  fire- 
wood. 

Gradually  his  stories  became  more 
realistic,  and  in  1910  he  published  his 
first  long  novel,  The  Village,  which  was 
“the  beginning  of  a series  of  works  de- 
scribing without  flattery  the  Russian  peo- 
ple, the  Russian  soul,  in  its  strange  com- 
plexity, its  depths  of  light  and  shade,  its 
essential  tragedy.”  These  stories,  he  tells 
us,  “for  many  reasons  peculiar  to  Rus- 
sian conditions,  and  latterly  because  of 
pure  ignorance  or  political  bias,  aroused 
excited  discussion  amongst  our  critics 
and  intellectuals  who  constantly  ideal- 
ized the  people,”  but  the  book,  which  is 
assuredly  the  most  ruthless  indictment  of 
the  so  frequently  sentimentalized  moujik, 


INTRODUCTION  17 

definitely  established  Bunin’s  fame.  In 
a later  story,  Sukhodol,  he  describes 
the  disintegration  of  the  Khrushchev 
family,  and  does  for  the  landowners  what 
he  did  for  the  peasantry.  In  the  volume 
of  short  stories  translated  into  English 
under  the  title  of  The  Dreams  of  Chang 
are  further  examples  of  the  author’s  art 
in  depicting  the  fundamental  barbarous- 
ness of  Russian  life  in  various  phases: 
A Goodly  Life,  A Spring  Evening,  A 
Night  Conversation. 

The  Cup  of  Life,  which  gives  its  title 
to  a second  collection  of  stories  published 
in  French,  is  a counterpart  to  The  Vil- 
lage in  its  portrayal  of  country  town  life. 
In  English  we  have  had,  so  far,  only  The 
Village  and  the  volume  of  short  stories 
referred  to  as  The  Dreams  of  Chang,  al- 
though the  best  story  in  it  is  The  Gentle- 
man from  San  Francisco.  Independently 


18  INTRODUCTION 

of  all  his  other  work  this  story  attained 
widespread  recognition  in  English,  and, 
until  Mitya  s Love  appeared,  it  was  the 
most  famous,  in  fact  the  only  famous, 
piece  of  writing  of  Bunin’s  outside  Rus- 
sia and  the  Russian  language.  In  its  sar- 
donic simplicity  this  description  of  an 
American  millionaire’s  journey  alive  to 
Capri  and  his  return  to  his  own  country 
dead  is  a masterpiece  which  lingers  in 
the  memory  with  certain  of  Chekhov’s 
austere  marvels  of  artistic  economy. 

The  transition  from  the  skilful  terse- 
ness of  The  Gentleman  from  San  Fran- 
cisco to  the  tender  and  romantic  lyricism 
of  Mitya’s  Love  is  abrupt,  but  readers  of 
stories  so  various  as  Brothers,  The 
Dreams  of  Chang,  Sukhodol  and  Kazi- 
mir Stanislavovich  do  not  need  to  be  re- 
minded of  the  great  versatility  of  Ivan 
Bunin.  After  Turgenev’s  First  Love 


INTRODUCTION  19 

Russian  literature  has  once  more  given 
us  a superb  study  of  the  intensity  and  the 
innocence  and  the  tragedy  of  young  love, 
of  youthful  passion  which  is  at  once  a 
crisis  of  the  mind  and  of  the  body.  The 
plot  of  such  a tale  must  of  necessity  be 
simple  and  elementary  to  the  point  of 
banality.  Bunin  is  too  consummate  an 
artist  to  be  deterred  by  that  fact,  and  too 
good  a psychologist  to  attempt  any  vio- 
lent variation  upon  this  eternal  theme.  In 
a brief  but  densely  packed  story  he  suc- 
ceeds in  showing  every  facet  of  first  love, 
its  sensuality  and  its  idealism,  its  ecstasies 
and  despair,  all  that  enters  into  it  of  in- 
tellectual exaltation  and  bodily  pain. 

All  of  Bunin’s  sensitiveness  to  nature 
is  again  visible  in  his  descriptive  pas- 
sages, and  that  curious  faculty  of  his 
whereby  he  attains  to  the  psychological 
and  spiritual  through  the  material  and 


20  INTRODUCTION 
physical  is  manifest  throughout.  Thus 
the  idyll,  for  all  its  naïveté  and  youthful- 
ness, is  profoundly  sensual.  Without  sac- 
rificing to  prurience  or  to  prudery  he  is 
able  to  achieve  a complete  picture  which 
bears  the  authentic  stamp  of  reality  and 
beauty,  free,  in  its  utter  sincerity,  from 
the  mawkishness  or  the  furtiveness  which 
have  disfigured  this  type  of  literature 
ever  since  Paul  et  Virginie  consecrated  a 
convention  of  hypocrisy.  Instinctive  life 
becomes  spiritualized  at  his  touch,  and 
the  material  world  is  illuminated  and 
transfigured  by  the  very  concentration 
upon  concrete  people  and  things  of  those 
imaginative  powers  which  are  the  secret 
of  Ivan  Bunin’s  art. 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


. 


<JxCitya',s  J^ove 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  ninth  of  March  was  Mitya’s  last 
happy  day  in  Moscow,  or  at  least,  he 
thought  so  later. 

He  was  walking  up  the  Boulevard 
Tverskoy  with  Katya.  It  was  midday. 
Winter  was  gradually  yielding  to  spring; 
it  was  almost  hot  in  the  sun,  as  if  the 
larks  had  really  come  back,  bringing  with 
them  warmth,  light  and  joy.  The  ice  was 
melting  and  everything  was  damp,  drops 
fell  from  the  roofs,  the  caretakers  were 
breaking  the  ice  on  the  pavements  and 

shovelling  the  wet  snow  from  the  roofs. 

23 


24  MITYA’S  LOVE 

Everywhere  there  were  crowds  of  peo- 
ple. Even  the  clouds  seemed  to  be  melt- 
ing away  into  thin  white  smoke  and  were 
disappearing  into  the  soft  blue  of  the  sky. 

The  boulevard  was  black  with  people 
as  far  as  one  could  see,  Pushkin’s  statue 
rose  in  the  distance,  gentle  and  pensive, 
the  roof  of  the  convent  of  the  Passion 
shone  brightly.  But  best  of  all,  Katya 
was  lovelier  than  ever.  She  walked  very 
close  to  Mitya,  sometimes  with  childlike 
confidence;  she  took  hold  of  his  arm  and 
looked  up  at  him,  while  he,  very  happy 
and  not  a little  proud,  strode  along,  like 
a country  boy,  so  fast  that  she  could 
hardly  keep  up  with  him. 

When  they  were  close  to  Pushkin’s 
monument  she  burst  out:  “How  funny 
your  big  mouth  looks  when  you  laugh! 
How  charmingly  boyish  and  awkward 
you  are!  Don’t  get  angry.  It’s  your 


MITYA’S  LOVE  25 

smile  that  makes  me  love  you  . . . that 
and  your  Byzantine  eyes.  . . 

Trying  not  to  smile  and  concealing 
both  his  pleasure  and  his  slight  annoy- 
ance, Mitya  looked  up  at  the  statue  which 
rose  before  them  against  the  sky  and  an- 
swered gently: 

“Since  you  speak  of  childishness  I think 
you  are  as  childish  as  I am,  though  you 
are  eighteen.  And  I look  as  much  like 
a Byzantine  as  you  look  like  the  Empress 
of  China!  All  this  talk  about  Byzantine 
esthetics  and  style  has  simply  gone  to  your 
head.  I can’t  understand  your  mother!” 

“I  suppose  that  if  you  were  in  her  place 
you  would  shut  me  up  in  a convent?” 
asked  Katya. 

“No,  not  in  a convent,  but  I would  keep 
you  away  from  Bohemia,  from  all  those 
so-called  artists  and  all  those  future  stars, 
from  the  studios,  conservatories  and  the- 


26 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


atrical  schools,”  answered  Mitya,  trying 
hard  to  be  calm  and  detached,  “You 
told  me  yourself  that  Boukovesky  has  in- 
vited you  to  supper  at  Strelna  and  that 
Egorov  has  asked  you  to  pose  for  a bronze 
of  some  dead  person  or  other, — and  nat- 
urally such  a very  great  honour  flatters 
you  !” 

“I  don’t  care,  I won’t  renounce  art 
even  for  your  sake.  It  may  be  that  I 
am  as  bad  as  you  so  often  say,” — although 
Mitya  had  never  said  anything  of  the 
sort — “I  may  be  depraved,  but  you  must 
take  me  as  I am.  And  please,  don’t  let 
us  quarrel,  and  stop  being  jealous,  even  if 
only  for  to-day  when  it  is  so  beautiful! 
Don’t  you  know  that,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, you  are  the  one  I love  best,  the 
only  one?”  she  asked  insistently  in  a low 
tone,  then,  looking  straight  at  him,  with 
her  eyes  wide  open,  slowly,  thoughtfully, 


MITYA’S  LOVE  27 
she  recited  artificially  with  a certain  co- 
quetry: 

Between  us  there  is  a mystery , 

Our  souls  are  united.  . . . 

This  completed  Mitya’s  annoyance.  On 
the  whole,  that  beautiful  day  was  full  of 
sad  and  unpleasant  things.  Katya’s  joke 
about  his  boyishness  had  been  unpleas- 
ant; it  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  made 
such  jokes,  intentionally  too.  Very  often 
Katya  showed  she  was  older  than  he;  and 
then  involuntarily,  therefore  quite  natu- 
rally, her  superiority  became  evident  and 
Mitya  suffered,  seeing  in  that  the  indica- 
tion of  a secret  perversity.  This  “in  spite 
of  everything,”  “in  spite  of  everything 
you  are  the  best,”  pronounced,  goodness 
knows  why,  in  a lowered  voice,  had  been 
uncalled  for;  but  most  unpleasant  of  all 
were  the  lines  declaimed  in  that  artificial 
manner.  And  yet  even  the  way  she  re- 


28  MITYA’S  LOVE 

cited  those  lines,  which  recalled  painfully 
to  his  mind  the  set  which  was  taking  her 
away  from  him  and  who  excited  his 
hatred  and  jealousy,  was  borne  easily  by 
Mitya  on  that  lovely  ninth  of  March,  the 
last  happy  day  he  was  to  spend  in  Mos- 
cow, as  he  very  often  thought  afterwards. 

That  same  day,  as  they  were  coming 
back  from  the  Kuznetzky  Bridge,  where 
Katya  had  bought  at  Zimmermann’s  a 
number  of  pieces  by  Scriabin,  she  spoke 
among  other  things  about  Mitya’s  mother  : 

“You  have  no  idea  how  frightened  I 
am  at  the  thought  of  her!” 

Not  once  since  they  had  been  in  love 
had  they  alluded  to  the  future  of  their 
love.  Now  out  of  a clear  sky  Katya  was 
speaking  to  Mitya  of  his  mother  and  was 
speaking  of  her,  not  casually,  but  as  if 
it  were  understood  that  his  mother  would 
be  her  mother-in-law.  . . . 


CHAPTER  II 

THEN  everything  seemed  to  go  on 
very  much  as  usual. 

Mitya  took  Katya  to  the  Art  Theatre 
Studio,  to  concerts,  to  literary  evenings; 
or  else  he  went  to  her  house  and  stayed 
till  two  in  the  morning,  thanks  to  the 
great  freedom  Katya’s  mother  gave  her. 
She  was  a lady  with  raspberry-colored 
hair,  always  smoking,  always  made-up, 
a kind  and  easy-going  woman  who  had 
for  a long  time  been  living  apart  from 
her  husband,  who  had  meanwhile  ac- 
quired another  family.  Katya  often  came 
to  Mitya’s  furnished  room  and  as  before 
their  meetings  were  spent  in  the  enchant- 
ment of  passionate  kisses.  But  Mitya  felt 

that  something  terrible  had  happened, 
29 


30 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


that  there  was  a change  in  Katya  and  in 
her  attitude  towards  him. 

How  quickly  the  beautiful  period  had 
passed  since  their  unforgettable  first  meet- 
ing, when,  though  they  hardly  knew  each 
other,  they  had  felt  that  what  they  wanted 
most  was  to  be  together  all  the  time.  They 
had  talked  from  morning  till  night, — 
that  lovely  time  when  Mitya  had  un- 
expectedly found  himself  in  that  won- 
drous world  of  love  he  had  secretly 
longed  for  as  a child.  They  had  met 
during  a cold  and  dry  December  which 
every  day  covered  Moscow  with  hoary 
frost,  illumined  by  the  reddish  globe  of 
a sun  very  close  to  the  earth.  Mitya  had 
been  carried  through  January  and  Febru- 
ary in  the  whirl  of  the  continuous  happi- 
ness which  his  love  brought  him,  a hap- 
piness which  seemed  to  be  perfect, — or 
almost  perfect.  And  yet  it  had  soon  be- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  31 

gun  to  be  troubled  and  embittered.  Al- 
ready it  seemed  as  though  there  were  two 
Katyas,  one  whom  he  had  ardently  de- 
sired and  claimed  from  the  very  first  min- 
ute he  had  known  her,  and  the  other,  the 
real,  ordinary  one  who  unluckily  did 
not  always  coincide  with  the  first.  But 
Mitya  had  never  felt  it  as  strongly  as  he 
was  feeling  it  to-day! 

Of  course  it  was  easy  to  explain.  The 
feminine  preoccupations  which  come 
with  the  spring  had  begun, — purchases, 
orders,  interminable  remodellings  of  this 
or  that.  Katya  was  often  obliged  to  ac- 
company her  mother  to  dressmakers  and 
modistes,  and  in  addition  she  had  to  take 
an  examination  in  the  theatrical  school 
she  attended.  To  quiet  his  mind  Mitya 
told  himself  every  minute  of  the  day  that 
her  preoccupation  and  her  abstraction 
might  have  perfectly  natural  causes.  But 


32 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


this  consolation  did  not  help  at  all, — the 
whisperings  of  his  suspicious  heart  be- 
came louder  and  more  insistent  every  day; 
Katya’s  inattentive  manner  towards  him 
became  more  marked  and  increased  his 
jealousy  and  suspicions.  The  praises  of 
the  Director  of  the  school  had  turned 
her  head  and  she  could  not  help  repeat- 
ing them  to  Mitya.  The  Director  had 
told  her:  “You  are  the  star  of  my  school,” 
and  beside  the  ordinary  courses  he  had 
given  her  private  lessons  during  Lent  so 
that  she  would  shine  at  the  examinations. 
He  had  the  reputation  of  seducing  his 
pupils  ; every  year  he  would  take  one  with 
him  to  the  Caucasus,  to  Finland,  or  to 
foreign  countries.  Mitya  persuaded  him- 
self that  the  Director  had  designs  on 
Katya  who,  though  she  had  not  flirted 
with  him,  knew  it  also  quite  well,  but 
Mitya  concluded  that  her  relations  with 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


33 


the  man  were  shameful.  This  thought  tor- 
mented him  greatly,  the  more  so  as  Kat- 
ya’s indifference  became  more  marked. 

It  seemed  as  though  Katya  were  slip- 
ping away  from  him.  He  could  not 
think  calmly  about  the  Director.  And  if 
that  had  only  been  all!  But  Mitya  felt 
that  there  were  also  other  interests  more 
important  to  Katya  than  her  love  for 
him.  In  whom  was  she  interested,  in 
what?  Mitya  did  not  know;  he  was 
jealous  of  everybody  and  of  everything, 
and  especially  of  everything  which,  in 
his  imagination,  enabled  Katya  to  live 
without  him.  He  thought  she  was  being 
inevitably  carried  away  from  him  to- 
wards a thing  the  jnere  thought  of  which 
frightened  him. 

Once  in  the  presence  of  her  mother, 
Katya  said  half-jokingly  : 

“Mitya,  on  the  whole,  your  opinions 


34 


MITYA'S  LOVE 


about  women  are  thoroughly  old-fash- 
ioned and  domestic.  You’ll  become  a 
perfect  Othello.  I wouldn’t  like  to  fall 
in  love  with  you  and  marry  you!” 

Her  mother  said: 

“I  can’t  conceive  of  love  without  jeal- 
ousy. In  my  opinion  people  who  are  not 
jealous  are  not  in  love!” 

“No,  mother,”  said  Katya,  who  was  in- 
clined to  repeat  other  people’s  remarks, 
“jealousy  shows  a want  of  trust  in  the 
person  one  loves.  If  I am  not  trusted,  I 
am  not  loved,”  she  added,  looking  away 
from  Mitya. 

“For  me,”  her  mother  went  on,  “love  is 
made  of  jealousy.  I read  that  somewhere. 
It  was  clearly  proved  with  examples  from 
the  Bible,  where  God  himself  is  described 
as  jealous  and  revengeful.” 

Henceforth,  Mitya’s  love  showed  itself 
almost  solely  in  jealousy.  It  seemed  to 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


35 


him  that  it  was  no  ordinary  jealousy,  but 
a very  special  kind.  Katya  and  he  had 
not  yet  achieved  the  greater  intimacy,  al- 
though they  had  gone  very  far  when  they 
were  alone.  And  now  at  such  times  Katya 
was  still  more  passionate  than  she  had 
been  heretofore.  But  he  began  to  sus- 
pect even  her  passion  and  sometimes  it 
gave  him  dreadful  thoughts.  All  the 
thoughts  which  formed  his  jealousy  were 
dreadful,  but  there  was  one  which  was 
especially  terrible,  and  which  Mitya 
could  not  define  or  even  understand.  It 
was  that  the  manifestations  of  passion,  the 
ones  which  were  so  delightful,  so  voluptu- 
ous, more  sublime  and  more  beautiful 
than  anything  else  in  the  world  when 
Katya  and  he  were  together,  appeared  in- 
credibly repulsive  and  monstrous  when 
Mitya  thought  of  Katya  with  another 
man.  At  those  moments  he  felt  a violent 


36 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


hatred  for  Katya,  an  almost  physical  dis- 
gust. In  his  eyes  all  that  went  on  be- 
tween them  was  pure,  beautiful  and 
charming.  But  it  was  quite  different  as 
soon  as  he  thought  of  somebody  else  in 
his  place.  All  the  beauty  was  transformed 
into  something  lewd  and  vulgar  which 
aroused  in  him  the  desire  to  strangle 
Katya — Katya  especially,  not  his  imagi- 
nary rival. 


CHAPTER  III 

DURING  the  last  week  in  Lent  the 
day  of  the  examination  came  at  last. 
Then  Mitya’s  grounds  for  his  hidden  tor- 
ments seemed  more  justified  than  ever. 

Katya  did  not  see  him  any  more,  did  not 
pay  any  attention  to  him;  she  had  become 
a stranger  to  him,  entirely  absorbed  in 
her  public  appearance. 

She  made  a great  success.  She  was 
dressed  all  in  white,  like  a bride,  and  her 
excitement  increased  her  loveliness.  She 
was  enthusiastically  applauded.  The  Di- 
rector, a self-sufficient  actor  with  sad  and 
impassible  eyes,  was  seated  in  the  front 
row,  giving  her  advice  to  enable  her  to 
shine  even  more.  He  spoke  softly  but  in 

such  a way  that  the  whole  room  could 
37 


38  MITYA’S  LOVE 

hear  his  voice,  which  exasperated  Mitya. 

“More  naturally  than  that!”  he  said 
gravely,  calmly,  with  such  familiarity 
and  authority  that  Katya  appeared  to  be 
his  private  property.  “Don’t  act,  live!” 
he  added,  accentuating  each  word. 

It  was  unbearable.  The  recitation 
which  provoked  the  applause  was  as  bad. 
Katya,  disconcerted,  at  times  blushed 
furiously,  sometimes  her  small  voice 
weakened.  She  was  breathless  and  it  was 
touching  and  charming.  But  she  was  re- 
citing with  the  vulgar  singsong,  with  the 
affectation  and  silliness  which  was  con- 
sidered the  height  of  artistry  in  the  set 
Mitya  hated,  and  which  already  absorbed 
all  Katya’s  thoughts.  She  did  not  speak 
naturally,  she  declaimed  her  piece  with 
excessive  pathos  in  her  voice,  with  an  ex- 
aggerated tone  of  prayer  which  was  en- 
tirely unjustified.  Mitya  was  so  ashamed 


MITYA’S  LOVE  39 
for  her  that  he  did  not  know  where  to 
look. 

Worst  of  all  was  the  mixture  of  angelic 
purity  and  perversity  in  Katya;  in  her 
flushed  little  face,  in  her  white  dress 
which  looked  very  short  because  the  audi- 
ence, looking  up  at  her,  could  see  her  silk- 
covered  legs  and  her  small  white  shoes. 
“The  young  girl  was  singing  in  the 
church,”  said,  or  rather  sang,  Katya  with 
an  exaggerated  and  affected  simplicity, 
talking  about  a girl  of  angelic  purity. 
And  Mitya  felt  just  then  very  close  to 
Katya, — as  one  always  does  in  a crowd 
when  the  person  one  loves  is  present, — 
and  also  a hostility  which  was  almost 
hatred;  he  was  proud  of  her,  too,  con- 
scious that  after  all  she  belonged  to  him, 
and  yet  his  heart  was  torn  with  sorrow: 
“No,  everything  is  over.  No,  she’ll  never 
be  mine  any  more!” 


40 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


After  the  examination  there  were  many 
happy  days  again.  But  Mitya  was  not  so 
trusting  as  before.  Katya,  remembering 
the  examination  said: 

“How  stupid  you  were!  Didn’t  you 
feel  that  I was  reciting  so  well  for  you 
alone!” 

She  was  upon  his  knees.  Bending  over 
her,  he  was  kissing  her  bare  white  knees 
and  her  breasts.  He  remained  silent.  He 
was  unable  to  forget  how  he  had  felt  dur- 
ing the  examination  and  he  could  not  tell 
her  that  he  was  still  thinking  those  things 
and  that  they  took  hold  of  him  still  from 
time  to  time  with  greater  or  less  force. 
Katya,  for  her  part,  could  guess  his  hid- 
den thoughts  and,  in  one  of  their  quarrels, 
she  said: 

“I  don’t  understand  why  you  love  me, 
since  you  find  everything  about  me  so  ob- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  41 
jectionable!  Tell  me,  what  do  you  want 
of  me?” 

But  he  himself  did  not  understand  why 
he  loved  her  so,  although  he  felt  that  his 
love,  far  from  weakening,  was  growing 
through  this  jealous  struggle  he  was  fight- 
ing against  some  one — wasn’t  it  first  of  all 
a struggle  against  Katya  herself? — be- 
cause of  her,  because  of  his  love,  because 
of  its  increasing  force  and  its  ever  more 
exacting  demands. 

Katya  had  once  said  bitterly:  “You 
don’t  love  my  soul,  you  only  love  my 
body.” 

They  were  words  she  had  read  some- 
where, theatrical  words,  but  in  spite  of 
their  foolishness  and  banality,  they 
touched  a distressingly  insoluble  prob- 
lem. He  did  not  know  why  he  loved, 
he  could  not  tell  exactly  what  he 


42  MITYA’S  LOVE 

wanted  . . . After  all,  what  is  love?  It 
was  impossible  for  him  to  say,  for  in  all 
that  he  had  ever  heard  or  read  about  love 
he  had  never  found  anything  which  ex- 
pressed his  emotion  exactly.  In  books,  as 
in  life,  it  seemed  as  if  every  one  had 
agreed,  once  for  all,  to  speak  only  of  a 
certain  kind  of  love,  almost  immaterial; 
or  else  of  what  is  called  passion,  sen- 
suality. And  his  love  was  like  neither, 
just  as  Katya  was  not  like  Charlotte,  Mar- 
guerite, Pushkin’s  Tatyana,  Turgenev’s 
heroines  nor  the  women  of  Zola  or  Mau- 
passant; just  as  his  own  feelings  in  no  way 
resembled  those  of  Werther,  Romeo, 
Onegin,  nor  any  of  the  innumerable 
heroes  who  were  Don  Juans  and  nothing 
else. 

What  did  he  feel  for  her?  What  is 
the  difference  between  love  and  passion? 
Was  it  Katya’s  soul  or  her  body  which 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


43 


almost  made  him  swoon,  which  gave  him 
that  felicity,  verging  upon  death,  that  he 
felt  when  he  opened  her  blouse  and  kissed 
the  bloom  of  her  virginal  bosom,  her 
bosom  which  she  offered  to  his  lips  with 
poignant  docility  and  the  most  innocent 
immodesty? 


CHAPTER  IV 


IN  April  Katya  changed  even  more. 
She  became  unrecognisable. 

Her  success  at  the  examination  was  part 
of  it,  and  yet  it  was  not  only  that  which 
had  transformed  her.  It  was  plain  that 
there  were  other  things  which  had  caused 
the  change.  Mitya  did  not  understand 
them,  did  not  know  what  they  were,  and 
was  much  puzzled.  When  spring  finally 
came,  Katya  began  to  act  like  a débutante, 
full  of  animation  and  always  in  a hurry. 
She  wore  a new  dress  almost  every  day 
and  they  were  all  very  plain  but  very 
expensive.  Now,  when  in  a swish  of  silk 
she  arrived, — no  longer  on  foot  but  al- 
ways in  a carriage, — she  went  quickly 
through  the  passage,  her  face  covered  by 

her  veil.  Mitya  was  ashamed  of  the  dark 
44 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


45 


passage.  She  was  still  tender  with  him, 
but  she  was  always  late  and  stayed  only  a 
little  while,  with  the  excuse  that  she  must 
accompany  her  mother  to  the  dressmaker. 

“You  see,  we  are  dressed  to  kill!”  she 
would  say  and  her  wide  open  eyes  would 
shine,  gay  and  wondering.  She  knew  very 
well  that  Mitya  did  not  believe  her  and 
that  she  sounded  as  if  she  were  lying,  but 
she  talked  all  the  more,  because  they  had 
nothing  to  say  to  each  other  any  longer. 

Now,  she  almost  never  took  off  her  hat, 
she  kept  her  umbrella  in  her  hand,  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  Mitya’s  bed,  madden- 
ing him  by  exposing  her  silk-clad  legs. 
As  she  was  leaving  she  would  say  that 
she  would  not  be  at  home  that  evening 
either  for  she  must  go  out  with  her  mother 
again.  Then,  with  the  evident  intention 
of  duping  him  and  making  up  for  all  his 
“foolish  imaginings”  as  she  called  them, 


46 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


she  would  invariably  do  the  same  thing, — 
she  would  look  furtively  towards  the  door, 
get  up  from  the  bed  and,  with  exagger- 
ated passion,  murmur  hurriedly: 

“Do  kiss  me!” 

She  would  throw  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  tenderly  press  her  graceful  body 
against  his.  Once  in  a particularly  long 
kiss,  she  moved  her  tongue,  pressed  her 
body  closer  against  Mitya’s  and,  drawing 
away,  whispered  quickly: 

“No,  you  drive  me  mad!” 

That  kiss  upset  Mitya  completely. 
Where  had  she  learned  such  kisses?  Mit- 
ya was  absolutely  inexperienced,  even  at 
kissing — his  first  winter  in  Moscow  had 
brought  him  his  first  love, — but  he  un- 
derstood all  that  was  strange  and  differ- 
ent in  Katya’s  kiss. 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  the  end  of  April,  Mitya  at  last  de- 
cided to  go  away  to  the  country  for  a 
time.  Both  he  and  Katya  were  tired  out 
and  their  torture  was  much  more  intoler- 
able because  it  seemed  unjustifiable. 
After  all,  what  had  happened,  what  had 
Katya  done?  One  day  she  said  to  him 
with  the  firmness  of  desperation: 

“Yes,  go  away,  go  away,  I can’t  bear 
it  any  more!  We  must  separate  for  a 
while  so  we  can  be  sure  of  our  feelings 
toward  each  other.  You  have  become  so 
thin  that  mother  is  sure  you  have  tuber- 
culosis. I am  all  tired  out!” 

So  Mitya’s  departure  was  decided 
upon.  But  he  was  greatly  astonished  to 

find,  that  although  sunk  in  grief,  he  was 

47 


48 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


almost  happy  to  go.  As  soon  as  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  leave,  everything 
was  as  it  had  been  when  they  first  met. 
Because,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  wished 
passionately  not  to  believe  in  the  phan- 
toms which  haunted  him  day  and  night! 
And  any  little  change  in  Katya  was 
enough  to  make  all  the  difference  in  the 
world! 

Katya  was  again  truly  tender  and  lov- 
ing. He  felt  it  with  the  infallible  sensi- 
tiveness of  the  jealous  nature.  Again,  he 
was  allowed  to  remain  with  her  till  two 
in  the  morning,  once  more  they  had  a 
lot  to  say  to  each  other  and  the  nearer 
the  hour  of  departure  came,  the  more  ab- 
surd the  separation  appeared,  “the  need 
to  be  sure  of  their  feelings  towards  each 
other.”  Once,  Katya,  who  never  cried, 
did  so,  and  her  tears  brought  her  closer 
to  Mitya  and  filled  him  with  acute  pity 


MITYA’S  LOVE  49 

and  with  the  feeling  that  it  was  all  his 
fault. 

Katya’s  mother  was  going  to  the 
Crimea  at  the  beginning  of  June  for  the 
whole  summer  and  she  was  taking  her 
daughter  with  her.  They  decided  that 
Mitya  should  go  to  Mishkor  when  he  had 
secured  some  money  and  that  they  would 
meet  there. 

He  ran  about  Moscow  preparing  for 
his  departure  like  one  who,  without  know- 
ing it,  is  already  in  the  throes  of  a grave 
illness.  He  was  sick,  drunkenly  unhappy 
and  at  the  same  time  wildly  happy,  soft- 
ened by  the  renewal  of  his  intimacy  with 
Katya  and  her  solicitude  for  him — she 
had  even  gone  with  him  to  buy  straps 
for  his  luggage,  as  if  she  were  his  fiancée 
or  his  wife — and  generally  by  the  return 
of  almost  everything  which  recalled  to 
him  the  first  weeks  of  their  love.  And 


50 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


his  surroundings  filled  him  with  the  same 
sensation, — the  houses,  the  streets,  those 
who  went  along  on  foot,  or  in  carriages, 
the  weather  continuously  morose  as  al- 
ways in  the  spring,  the  smell  of  dust  and 
rain,  the  church-like  smell  of  flowering 
poplars  behind  walls  in  the  small  streets; 
everything  spoke  of  the  bitterness  of  sep- 
aration, of  the  delight  of  the  coming  sum- 
mer, of  the  meeting  in  the  Crimea  where 
nothing  would  disturb  them  and  where 
the  promise  would  be  fulfilled! — al- 
though he  was  ignorant  yet  of  what  that 
promise  was  exactly. 

Protassov  came  to  see  him  on  the  day 
of  his  departure.  Amongst  the  more  ad- 
vanced pupils  of  the  High  Schools  and 
amongst  University  students  are  rather 
frequently  to  be  found  young  men  who 
adopt  a bantering  attitude,  both  kind  and 
bitter,  and  the  manners  of  older  and  more 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


51 


experienced  men.  Protassov  was  one  of 
these.  He  was  Mitya’s  most  intimate 
comrade,  his  only  real  friend,  who  knew 
all  about  his  love  for  Katya,  in  spite  of 
Mitya’s  silent  and  reserved  temperament. 
As  he  looked  at  Mitya  tying  his  trunk  and 
saw  his  hands  tremble  he  smiled  with 
melancholy  wisdom  and  said: 

“Good  God,  what  children  you  two 
are!  And  yet,  my  dear  young  Werther, 
it  is  time  for  you  to  understand  that 
Katya  is  the  typical  woman  and  even 
the  chief  of  police  can’t  do  anything 
about  it.  You,  as  a typical  man,  you  hit 
the  ceiling  at  once,  you  are  at  the  mercy 
of  your  instinct  to  perpetuate  the  race, 
which  is,  of  course,  perfectly  legitimate 
and  up  to  a certain  point,  sacred.  Your 
body  is  your  supreme  reason  for  existing, 
as  Nietzsche  pointed  out  very  truly.  But 
it  is  also  legitimate  that  on  that  sacred 


52  MITYA’S  LOVE 

road  you  might  break  your  neck.  There 
are,  in  the  animal  world,  certain  species 
which  must  pay  with  their  existence  for 
their  first  and  last  act  of  love.  Possibly 
you  may  not  be  destined  to  such  a fate 
if  you  keep  your  eyes  open  and  take  care 
of  yourself.  ‘On  my  word  of  honour, 
Junker  Schmidt,  the  summer  will  come 
back!’  Katya  is  not  the  only  woman  in 
the  world.  I see  by  the  efforts  you  are 
making  to  strangle  your  valise  that  you 
do  not  agree  with  me,  and  that  she  is  the 
only  one  for  you.  Well,  excuse  my  in- 
discreet advice  and  may  Saint  Nicolas  and 
all  the  other  Blessed  Saints  have  you  in 
their  keeping!” 

When  Protassov  left,  after  shaking 
hands  with  Mitya,  the  latter,  pulling  his 
straps  around  his  pillow  and  travelling 
bag,  heard  through  the  window  opening 
on  the  court  a singer  who  lived  opposite 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


53 


and  who  practised  from  morning  till 
night.  He  was  singing  The  Sultans 
Daughter,  who  walked  about  her  garden 
“shining  with  beauty.”  Then,  Mitya 
hastened  his  straps,  took  his  cap  and  went 
to  say  good-bye  to  Katya’s  mother.  The 
air  and  the  words  of  song  that  the  musi- 
cian had  been  singing  pursued  him  with 
such  insistence  that  he  saw  neither  the 
streets  nor  the  passers-by  and  he  walked 
even  more  unsteadily  than  he  had  done 
during  the  last  few  days.  Again  his  mind 
dwelt  on  the  song  in  which  the  Sultan’s 
daughter  met  in  the  garden  a negro  slave 
standing  near  the  fountain  “paler  than 
death  itself.”  She  asked  him  who  he  was 
and  where  he  came  from,  and  he  began 
by  answering  her  in  a sinister  but  humble 
tone  with  mournful  simplicity: 

My  name  is  Mahomet 

and  ended  in  an  ecstatic  and  tragic  cry: 


5 4 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


1 belong  to  the  race  of  the  poor  Azri 
If  we  love  we  die! 

Katya  was  dressing  to  see  him  off  at 
the  station.  From  her  room, — the  room 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  unforgettable 
hours, — she  called  that  she  would  be  at 
the  station  before  the  first  bell  of  the  train 
had  rung.  The  kind  woman  with  the 
raspberry-colored  hair  was  sitting  alone, 
smoking;  she  looked  at  him  sadly,  it  was 
quite  probable  that  she  had  understood 
and  guessed  everything  long  ago.  He, 
blushing  and  inwardly  very  nervous,  bent 
his  head  dutifully  and  kissed  her  soft, 
limp  hand,  and  she  with  motherly  affec- 
tion gave  him  several  kisses  on  the  temple 
and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  him. 

“Well,  my  dear,”  she  said  with  a shy 
smile,  quoting  Griboiedov,  “learn  to 
laugh!  Christ  be  with  you!  Go  now, 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


55 


He  could  not  remember  how  he  got  out, 
or  rather  how  he  escaped.  He  almost 
fell  over  the  carpet  in  the  hall,  but  to 
make  up  for  that,  he  went  down  stairs 
with  a ferociously  firm  and  angry  step. 


CHAPTER  VI 


WHEN  he  had  finished  his  packing 
and,  with  the  aid  of  the  porter,  had 
stowed  his  luggage  safely  in  a cab,  he 
sat  back  uncomfortably  among  his  belong- 
ings, disturbed  by  the  strange  feeling 
which  seizes  one  when  leaving  a familiar 
place;  dismay  that  a certain  phase  of  life 
is  ended  for  ever,  combined  with  the  hope 
that  perhaps  a new  life  is  beginning.  He 
became  calmer  and  looked  around  him 
with  courage  and  with  new  eyes.  The 
end, — he  was  saying  good-bye  to  Moscow 
and  all  his  life  there!  It  was  drizzling, 
the  weather  was  dull  again,  the  narrow 
streets  were  deserted,  the  pavement  was 
dark  and  shone  like  iron,  the  houses  were 
dirty  and  mournful  and  the  coachman 

drove  with  exasperating  slowness! 

56 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


57 


They  passed  the  Kremlin  and  the  Po- 
krovka  ; then  they  again  followed  narrow 
crooked  streets.  In  the  gardens  the  jays 
with  their  raucous  cries  were  announcing 
the  rain  and  the  evening, — but  it  was  a 
spring  evening.  Howlings  and  whistlings 
came  from  the  station.  At  last  they  ar- 
rived and  Mitya  followed  his  porter 
through  the  swarming  and  echoing  wait- 
ing-room to  the  platform,  then  to  track 
number  3 where  the  long  heavy  train  for 
Kursk  was  already  waiting.  Among  that 
immense  and  ugly  crowd  assaulting  the 
train,  among  the  porters  noisily  pushing 
their  trucks  loaded  with  baggage  and 
shouting  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  he  per- 
ceived immediately  the  one  who,  “shining 
with  beauty,”  was  standing  aside,  alone 
and  away  from  the  crowd.  She  seemed 
then  apart,  not  only  from  the  crowd 
but  from  the  whole  world.  The  first  bell 


58  MITYA’S  LOVE 
had  sounded, — this  time  it  was  he  who 
was  late,  it  was  Katya  who  was  waiting 
for  him.  She  ran  to  meet  him  with  the 
eagerness  of  a fiancée  or  a wife. 

“Go  and  get  a seat,  darling.  The  sec- 
ond bell  will  be  ringing  in  a minute.” 

After  the  second  ring,  he  stood  at  the 
window  of  a crowded  and  vile-smelling 
third  class  carriage  while  Katya,  more 
lovely  than  ever,  remained  on  the  plat- 
form looking  up  at  him.  Everything 
about  her  was  delightful,  her  pretty  and 
mobile  face,  her  slim  figure,  her  fresh- 
ness, her  youth  in  which  womanly  charm 
wa9  still  mixed  with  childishness,  her 
bright  eyes,  her  simple  blue  hat,  the  shape 
of  which  alone  gave  her  a certain  rakish 
elegance,  and  even  the  dark-grey  suit  she 
wore.  Mitya  loved  its  material  and  its 
silk  lining.  Standing,  he  was  tall  and 
awkward,  terribly  thin.  For  the  journey 


59 


MITYA’S  LOVE 

he  had  put  on  heavy  riding  boots  and  an 
old  coat  whose  worn  white  buttons 
showed  the  red  copper  underneath.  It 
had  been  part  of  his  college  uniform.  But 
in  spite  of  that  Katya’s  sad  eyes  were  full 
of  love  as  she  looked  at  him.  The  third 
signal  gave  him  such  an  abrupt  shock 
that  with  the  same  impulse  Mitya  jumped 
from  the  carriage  and  Katya  ran  towards 
him.  He  pressed  his  lips  passionately 
upon  her  gloved  hand  and  jumped  back 
into  the  carriage  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
He  waved  his  cap  frantically,  while  she, 
holding  her  skirt  and  still  looking  up  at 
him,  seemed  to  be  retreating  from  him. 
She  moved  faster  and  faster  and  the  wind 
made  Mitya’s  hair  wilder  and  wilder  as 
he  bent  out  of  the  window.  The  implaca- 
ble locomotive  gathered  speed,  with  an 
insolent  shriek,  until  finally  Katya  and 
the  platform  disappeared  from  sight. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  long  spring  twilight  was  dark- 
ened by  rain  clouds,  the  heavy  train 
groaned  its  way  through  fresh  and  bare 
fields, — spring  was  just  beginning  in  the 
country, — the  conductors  passed  through 
the  cars  collecting  tickets  and  putting 
candles  in  the  lanterns.  Mitya  stood  near 
the  vibrating  window,  still  tasting  Katya’s 
glove  upon  his  lips,  still  aflame  with  the 
sharp  pain  of  the  last  instant  of  separa- 
tion. He  saw  in  a new  light  the  long  past 
winter,  full  of  happiness  and  torture, 
which  had  transformed  his  whole  life. 
Katya  also  appeared  to  him  in  a new  light. 
Yes,  who  could  express  what  she  was  to 
him,  what  she  meant?  Love,  passion  ; soul 

and  body?  What  is  all  that?  That  wasn’t 
60 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


61 


it  at  all!  It  was  something  quite  differ- 
ent! The  perfume  of  her  glove?  wasn’t 
that  also  Katya,  love,  her  body  and  her 
soul?  And  the  peasants,  the  workmen  in 
the  carriage,  the  woman  who  was  taking 
her  disagreeable  child  to  the  toilet,  the 
dull  candles  in  their  rattling  lanterns,  the 
twilight  in  the  deserted  spring  fields,  all 
that  was  love,  all  that  was  soul — and  it 
was  all  torture  and  it  was  all  undefinable 
joy! 

In  the  morning  they  reached  Orel, 
where  he  had  to  change  and  take  the  local 
train  already  waiting  on  a distant  track. 
Mitya  felt  how  simple,  calm,  and  friendly 
these  people  were  compared  to  Moscow 
people,  now  so  far  away,  in  that  far  world 
whose  centre  was  Katya,  so  touchingly 
and  tenderly  beloved!  Even  the  sky, 
spotted  here  and  there  by  clouds  heavy 
with  rain,  even  the  pure  breeze  over  the 


62  MITYA’S  LOVE 

fields  was  simpler  and  calmer  here  . . . 
The  train  left  Orel  slowly,  very  slowly, 
and  Mitya,  seated  in  the  empty  carriage, 
leisurely  ate  the  cakes  he  had  bought  at 
Tula.  Then,  when  at  last  Orel  was  left 
behind,  the  train  went  faster  and  Mitya, 
soothed  by  its  motion,  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  they  were  at  Verk- 
hovie.  The  train  had  stopped  and  there 
were  a lot  of  people  walking  about.  It 
wa9  all  very  provincial.  He  could  smell 
the  agreeable  fumes  of  cooking  in  the  sta- 
tion restaurant  and  felt  hungry.  He  ate 
a plate  of  soup  with  relish  and  drank  a 
bottle  of  beer  and,  feeling  more  tired  than 
ever,  went  back  to  sleep.  When  he  awoke 
again  the  train  was  going  full  speed 
through  a forest  of  birches  he  knew  well. 
The  next  station  was  his.  Again  night 
was  falling,  a dull  spring  night.  Through 
the  opened  window  came  a smell  of  rain 


MITYA’S  LOVE  63 
and  mushrooms.  The  trees  were  still  bare 
of  leaves,  nevertheless  the  noise  of  the 
train  seemed  greater  than  in  the  fields. 
In  the  distance  the  sad  station  lights  were 
already  appearing.  Then  the  green  light 
of  the  semaphore  above  them,  exceed- 
ingly pretty  in  that  twilight  among  those 
bare  trees,  and  with  a great  noise  the  train 
switched  to  another  track  . . . How  de- 
lightfully rustic  and  pleasing  was  the 
farm  hand,  waiting  on  the  platform  for 
the  young  master!  And  in  Mitya’s  imagi- 
nation Katya’s  beauty  shone  brighter 
still  . . . 

As  they  drove  from  the  station,  through 
a big  village,  dirty  and  springlike,  the 
twilight  and  the  clouds  became  thicker. 
Everything  was  submerged  in  the  ex- 
traordinary softness  of  the  closing  day,  in 
the  heavy  silence  of  the  earth,  in  the 
warmish  night,  which  seemed  one  with 


64  MITYA’S  LOVE 

the  darkness  of  the  low  moist  clouds. 
Again  Mitya  wondered  and  rejoiced: 
how  simple,  calm  and  poor  the  country- 
side was,  with  its  smoked  thatched  cot- 
tages that  had  already  been  asleep  for  a 
long  time,  because  on  Annunciation  day 
the  good  country  people  used  no  artificial 
light,  and  how  comfortable  one  felt  in 
the  dark,  soft  warmth  of  the  steppes! 
The  carriage  plunged  through  muddy 
holes;  in  a rich  peasant’s  yard  some  oaks 
stood  still  bare  and  very  grim,  darkly 
spotted  by  rooks’  nests.  Standing  near 
the  house  and  looking  up  at  the  sky,  was 
a strange  peasant  who  seemed  to  have 
survived  from  the  Middle  Ages;  his  feet 
were  bare,  his  smock  torn,  and  he  wore 
a hat  of  sheepskin  over  his  long  straight 
hair  . . . And  now  a soft  rain,  lukewarm 
and  perfumed,  began  to  fall.  Mitya 
thought  about  the  girls  and  the  young 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


65 


women  asleep  in  those  houses,  about  the 
vast  feminine  world  he  had  approached 
last  winter  through  Katya,  and  magically 
all  his  thoughts  and  sensations  mingled 
confusedly:  Katya,  the  girls,  the  night, 
the  spring,  the  rain,  the  odour  of  the 
freshly-ploughed  fields  ready  to  be  sowed, 
the  smell  of  the  horse  and  the  perfume 
of  her  kid  gloves  . . . Mitya  curled  up 
in  the  carriage,  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  and 
with  trembling  hands  he  lighted  a ciga- 
rette . . . 


CHAPTER  VIII 


IN  the  country  life  began  with  delight- 
ful and  peaceful  days.  During  the  drive 
from  the  station  Katya  had  paled  and  had 
seemed  to  melt  in  the  surrounding  coun- 
try. It  was  an  illusion  which  lasted  only 
a few  days  more,  while  Mitya  was 
catching  up  on  his  sleep,  was  becoming 
himself  again,  and  was  readjusting  him- 
self to  the  life  he  knew  from  childhood. 
The  house  where  he  was  born,  the  coun- 
try, the  rustic  spring,  the  barrenness  and 
emptiness  of  the  world,  now  once  more 
youthful  and  pure,  was  ready  for  a new 
flowering.  But  even  during  those  days, 
Katya  was  everywhere  and  at  the  back  of 
everything,  just  as  a long  time  ago, — when 
nine  years  previously  Mitya’s  father  had 

died,  also  in  the  spring — there  had  been, 
66 


MITYA’S  LOVE  67 
for  a long  time,  everywhere  and  at  the 
back  of  everything,  death. 

The  estate  was  small,  the  house  was  old 
and  unpretentious,  and  this  simple  way 
of  living  did  not  demand  numerous  ser- 
vants. A peaceful  life  began  for  Mitya. 
His  sister  Anya,  in  the  second  year  of  high 
school,  and  his  brother  Kostya,  a young 
cadet,  were  still  at  Orel  studying  and 
would  not  return  until  the  end  of  May. 
His  mother,  Olga  Petrovna,  was  as  al- 
ways absorbed  in  the  management  of  the 
farm,  having  no  one  to  help  her  but  an 
overseer, — the  starost,  as  he  was  called  by 
the  servants.  During  the  day,  she  was 
usually  in  the  fields  or  off  to  the  town  on 
business  and  she  went  to  bed  at  nightfall. 

That  first  night  Mitya  slept  twelve 
hours.  The  next  day,  after  washing  and 
dressing  in  his  sunny  room,  which  faced 
east  and  looked  out  upon  the  garden,  he 


68 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


went  all  over  the  house,  feeling  how 
keenly  he  was  attached  to  it  and  how  its 
peaceful  simplicity  was  calming  his  soul 
and  body.  Everything  was  as  it  had  been 
for  many  years.  Everywhere  was  the 
same  agreeable  smell.  The  house  had 
been  carefully  cleaned  for  his  homecom- 
ing,— he  came  back  no  longer  as  a boy, 
but  almost  as  the  young  master, — and  the 
floors  of  all  the  rooms  had  been  scrubbed. 
Only  the  cleaning  of  the  big  drawing- 
room near  the  hall,  used  only  on  state 
occasions,  had  not  yet  been  completed. 
Standing  on  a window  ledge  near  the  door 
opening  upon  the  terrace,  a freckle-faced 
girl  from  the  village  was  trying  to  dry 
the  upper  pane,  while  the  lower  one  re- 
flected a bluish  image  of  her.  Paracha, 
the  maid,  pulled  a big  cloth  from  her 
bucket  of  hot  water,  and  walking  across 
the  flooded  floor  on  the  small  heels  of  her 


MITYA’S  LOVE  69 

bare  feet,  showing  her  white  legs,  she 
said  to  Mitya  with  an  affectionate  famil- 
iarity, as  with  her  bent  arm  she  wiped 
her  flaming  face: 

“Go  and  have  your  breakfast.  It  was 
not  yet  daylight  when  your  mother  went 
to  the  station  with  the  overseer.  I don’t 
suppose  you  even  heard  her  leaving.” 

And  at  once  Katya  imperiously  called 
him  back  to  her  in  his  thoughts.  He  had 
caught  himself  desiring  this  woman’s 
arm  with  its  pulled-up  sleeve,  the  femi- 
nine curves  of  the  girl  stretching  towards 
the  top  of  the  window,  her  skirt  under 
which  were  hidden  the  firm  columns  of 
her  bare  legs,  and  joyfully  he  felt  Katya’s 
power,  her  domination  over  him.  All 
morning  he  felt  her  invisible  presence. 

With  each  new  day  as  he  gained  con- 
trol of  himself  again,  he  felt  her  presence 
very  keenly  and  more  wonderfully.  He 


70 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


grew  calmer  and  began  to  rid  himself 
of  that  sickly  sensitiveness,  which  had 
made  everything  in  Moscow  hurt  him, — 
and  probably  without  any  real  cause.  As 
he  grew  more  deeply  in  communion  with 
the  spring  and  the  country  he  forgot  the 
real  Katya  in  Moscow,  who  had  so  often 
and  so  painfully  failed  to  coincide  with 
the  Katya  of  his  dreams  and  desires. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOR  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was 
living  at  home  like  a grown  man,  abso- 
lutely independent, — even  his  mother 
treated  him  differently, — but  above  all  he 
was  living  in  spirit  with  his  first  love, 
realising  all  the  secret  longings  of  his 
childhood  and  his  adolescence.  It  was 
for  this  love  he  had  grown  and  matured, 
it  seemed  that  he  had  been  waiting  for 
it  since  his  first  day  on  earth.  When 
he  was  still  a child,  a sensation  impos- 
sible to  express  in  words  had  fluttered 
within  him,  a sensation  both  mysterious 
and  profound.  One  day  in  the  spring,  in 
a garden,  near  a lilac  bush, — he  still  re- 
membered the  strong  smell  of  the  blos- 
soms,— he  was  standing  near  a young 
71 


72 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


woman,  perhaps  his  nurse.  Suddenly  the 
world  had  been  illumined  by  a celestial 
light,  perhaps  from  her  face,  perhaps 
from  the  apron  drawn  tight  on  her  full 
bosom.  It  seemed  as  if  a warm  current 
had  moved  through  his  body,  like  a child 
moving  in  its  mother’s  womb  . . . But 
that  had  been  like  a dream.  He  had  had 
similar  experiences  later  in  his  childhood, 
his  early  adolescence  and  during  the  years 
he  spent  at  high  school.  He  felt  ex- 
traordinary attractions,  quite  unlike  any- 
thing else  in  his  world,  towards  some  of 
the  little  girls  who  came,  accompanied 
by  their  mothers,  to  children’s  parties;  a 
well-hidden  but  voracious  curiosity  at  all 
of  the  movements  of  those  delightful 
small  beings,  who  were  also  quite  unlike 
anything  else  in  his  world, — their  small 
dresses,  their  bows  of  ribbon  upon  their 
small  heads.  Still,  later,  in  the  principal 


MITYA’S  LOVE  73 

town  of  the  province,  he  had  felt  a much 
more  conscious  attraction,  lasting  a whole 
autumn,  towards  a small  high  school  girl 
who  often,  in  the  evening,  climbed  a tree 
behind  his  garden  wall.  Her  liveliness, 
her  roguishness,  the  round  comb  in  her 
hair,  her  small  dirty  hands,  her  laugh,  her 
ringing  shouts,  all  had  had  such  an  over- 
whelming effect  upon  him  that  he  had 
thought  about  her  all  day  long,  and  was 
sad  and  sometimes  even  cried,  powerless 
to  control  his  insatiable  desire.  Then  this 
feeling  had  passed  off  of  itself  and  was 
forgotten,  and  Mitya  felt  attracted  to- 
wards others,  emotions  all  more  or  less 
ephemeral,  but  all  carefully  concealed. 
He  had  had  sharp  joys  and  sharp  sorrows 
caused  by  secret  passions  born  at  dances 
in  the  high  school.  Once,  when  he  was 
only  in  his  second  year,  he  had  almost  had 
a real  affair  with  a girl  of  sixteen  in  the 


74  MITYA’S  LOVE 

senior  class,  a tall,  dark-haired  girl,  with 
very  dark  eyebrows.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Mitya  touched  a girl’s  soft  cheek 
once,  once  only,  and  he  had  felt  a bliss- 
ful shiver,  like  one  he  had  experienced 
at  his  first  communion  and  like  noth- 
ing he  had  felt  since,  even  with  Katya. 
But  that  was  all  there  had  been  to  that 
adventure;  it  also  was  forgotten.  For  a 
long  time  Mitya  felt  languid  in  body  and 
his  mind  was  filled  with  the  images  of 
dreams.  He  saw  very  clearly  now  that 
the  enigmatic  but  charming  spring  was 
entering  his  soul,  that  before  he  had  met 
Katya,  all  his  life,  all  his  passionate  at- 
tractions, his  dreams,  his  hopes,  had  been 
only  a medley  of  confused  hallucinations 
and  presentiments. 

He  was  born  in  the  country  and  had 
grown  up  there,  but  during  his  high 
school  days  he  had  always  spent  the  spring 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


75 


months  in  town,  except  the  year  before 
last,  when  he  came  home  ill  during  Easter 
and  had  spent  the  whole  of  March  and 
part  of  April  convalescing  in  the  country. 
It  had  been  an  unforgettable  period.  For 
a fortnight  he  had  remained  in  bed,  see- 
ing through  the  window  only  the  sky,  the 
snow,  the  garden,  the  tree  trunks  and  the 
branches  changing  every  day  as  the  days 
grew  longer  and  warmer.  He  looked  out, 
it  was  morning  and  the  sun  was  pouring 
so  much  light  and  heat  into  the  room  that 
the  flies  had  come  to  life  and  were  crawl- 
ing about  on  the  window  panes  . . . The 
next  day  in  the  afternoon  the  sun  was  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house  and  he  saw 
through  the  window  the  bluish  white 
snow,  and  the  sky  streaked  like  marble. 
There  were  big  white  clouds  in  the  blue 
between  the  tree  tops.  The  next  day  there 
were  such  clear  spots  in  the  cloudy  sky, 


76 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


such  a bright  moisture  on  the  bark  of  the 
trees,  so  many  drops  falling  from  the 
roof  above  the  window  that  he  was  never 
tired  of  looking  out  and  rejoicing  at  the 
melting  snow.  Then  there  were  warm 
fogs  and  rain,  and  in  a few  days  the  snow 
had  melted  and  disappeared,  a brook  was 
carrying  it  out  of  the  garden  and  into 
the  yard,  the  black  earth  was  showing, 
new  and  joyful.  Mitya  remembered  for  a 
long  time  a day  towards  the  end  of  March 
when,  for  the  first  time  since  his  illness, 
he  was  able  to  go  on  horseback  through 
the  fields,  still  stubble-covered,  reddish, 
and  uncultivated  except  where  a little 
ploughing  had  been  done, — they  had  al- 
ready started  to  sow  the  oats, — and  the 
soil  showed  dark  and  fat  in  its  primitive 
richness.  He  went  straight  through  the 
stubble  and  the  ploughed  fields  to  a wood 
which  was  spread  in  the  distant  valley, 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


77 


and  in  the  clear  atmosphere  he  could  see 
it  bare  and  small,  visible  in  all  its  expanse. 

Then  he  went  down  towards  the  valley 
and  under  his  horse’s  hoofs  the  thick  car- 
pet of  leaves  from  the  year  before  rustled, 
here  dry  and  straw-coloured  and  there  wet 
and  brown.  He  crossed  ditches  full  of 
leaves  where  the  water  from  the  melted 
snow  was  still  running  and  where  birds 
of  dark  golden  hue  flew  out  from  the 
bushes  almost  under  his  horse’s  hoofs. 
The  fresh  wind  came  to  meet  him  an  a 
his  horse  plunged  victoriously  through 
the  damp  stubble  and  the  dark  ploughed 
land,  breathing  noisily,  sniffing  and 
snorting  with  a splendid  wild  strength 

What  had  this  spring  meant  to  him— - 
and  especially  that  day  spent  in  the 
fields?  It  seemed  at  the  time  that  that 
spring  had  been  his  first  real  love,  that 
spring  when  he  had  been  constantly  in 


78 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


love  with  some  one  or  something,  when 
he  had  loved  all  the  high  school  girls 
and,  indeed,  all  the  girls  in  the  universe. 
Good  Lord!  how  far  away  it  all  seemed 
now!  What  a very  small  innocent  boy 
he  had  been,  so  simple  of  heart,  with  his 
sorrows,  his  joys  and  his  dreams,  all  of 
them  so  modest!  And  now  he  felt  for 
that  little  boy  a sad  and  tender  pity.  His 
present  aimless  and  unreal  love  was  then 
a dream,  or  rather  the  memory  of  a mar- 
vellous dream.  But,  now,  there  was 
^atya  among  all  those  things,  Katya  who 
P°"sessed  him  wholly.  Katya,  the  soul  in 
which  all  the  world  was  incarnate. 

/ 


CHAPTER  X 

ONLY  once  during  the  first  weeks  of 
Mitya’s  life  in  the  country  was  Katya  re- 
called to  his  remembrance  in  an  unpleas- 
ant manner.  Very  late  one  evening,  ex- 
cited by  the  voluptuous  day  dreams  which 
thinking  of  Katya  always  brought  him, 
Mitya  stood  for  a moment  on  the  terrace 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  It  was  quite 
dark  and  very  peaceful  and  he  br.eathed 
in  the  smell  of  the  damp  fields.  Through 
the  dark  clouds,  above  the  uncertain  con- 
tours of  the  gardens,  ''mall  stars  were 
shining  feebly  as  if  through  tears.  And 
suddenly  in  the  distance  something 
howled  wildly,  diabolically, — and  went 
on  barking,  howling.  Mitya  shivered, 
steeled  himself,  and  went  down  the  steps 

carefully  into  the  dark  alley  from  every 
79 


80 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


corner  of  which  unseen  evil  beings  seemed 
to  be  spying  on  him,  and  there,  again,  he 
waited  and  listened:  what  was  it,  where 
was  it,  that  thing  that  had  filled  the  eve- 
ning so  suddenly,  so  terribly  with  its 
cries?  “An  owl  making  love  probably, 
nothing  else!”  he  thought,  but  he  stiffened 
as  if  the  devil  himself  were  present  in  the 
darkness.  Suddenly  another  low-toned 
howl  shook  Mitya  to  the  depths  of  his 
being;  somewhere,  quite  near  him,  at  the 
top  of  the  alley,  there  was  a crackling,  a 
rustling,  and  the  devil  betook  himself  si- 
lently to  another  corner  of  the  garden. 
There  he  barked  first,  then  began  a plain- 
tive moaning,  asking  pardon  like  a child, 
crying,  beating  his  wings  and  screeching 
with  sorrowful  delight,  screaming  and 
bursting  into  sardonic  laughter  as  if  he 
were  tickled  or  tortured.  Trembling  all 
over  Mitya  tried  to  pierce  the  darkness 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


81 


and  listened  intently.  But  the  devil 
abruptly  stopped  and  after  rending  the 
garden  with  a howl  of  hopeless  despair, 
disappeared  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed 
him.  After  waiting  vainly  for  the  re- 
newal of  that  amorous  horror,  Mitya 
softly  went  back  to  the  house.  All  night 
long  he  was  tortured  in  his  sleep  by  the 
same  awful  thoughts,  the  morbid  im- 
aginings that  had  changed  his  love  in 
March.  And  he  thought:  “Who  knows 
where  Katya  is  now?  She  may  be  loving 
some  one  else.” 

However,  in  the  morning  sunshine,  his 
torments  of  the  night  before  quickly 
evaporated.  He  remembered  Katya’s 
tears  when  they  had  at  last  decided  that 
he  should  leave  Moscow  for  a time,  he 
recalled  with  what  enthusiasm  she  had 
welcomed  the  idea  that  he  should  come 
to  the  Crimea  at  the  beginning  of  June, 


82 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


and  in  what  a charming  way  she  had 
helped  him  with  his  preparations  for  his 
departure  and  how  she  had  seen  him  off 
at  the  station.  He  took  out  her  photo- 
graph, looked  for  a long  time  at  her 
small  coquettish  face,  and  wondered  at 
the  purity,  the  clearness  of  her  eyes, 
bright,  wide  open,  slightly  rounded.  He 
wrote  her  a rather  long  and  tender  letter, 
full  of  confidence  in  their  love,  and  after 
posting  it  imagined  what  it  would  be  like 
to  have  Katya’s  loving  and  radiant  pres- 
ence continually  among  all  the  things 
which  were  life  and  joy  to  him. 

He  had  not  forgotten  how  he  had  felt 
when  his  father  had  died,  nine  years  pre- 
viously. It  was  also  in  the  spring.  The 
day  after  his  death,  his  father  lay 
stretched  out  upon  a table,  dressed  in  his 
nobleman’s  costume,  his  big  pale  hands 
crossed  upon  his  large  chest,  his  beard 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


83 


dark  and  thin,  his  nose  quite  white. 
Mitya  had  crossed  the  room  hesitatingly 
and  fearfully,  he  had  gone  out  upon  the 
terrace  and  looked  at  the  enormous  cof- 
fin top,  covered  with  gold  brocade,  lean- 
ing against  the  door.  There  he  had  first 
felt  the  presence  of  death  in  the  universe. 
Death  was  everywhere,  in  the  sunlight, 
in  the  green  grass  in  the  yard,  in  the  sky, 
in  the  garden  . . . He  went  into  the  gar- 
den, along  the  avenue  lined  with  lime- 
trees  bright  with  sunlight,  then  along  the 
side  avenues,  brighter  still;  he  looked  at 
the  trees,  at  the  first  white  butterflies,  and 
listened  to  the  faint  chirruping  of  the  first 
birds, — and  he  recognised  nothing.  Death 
was  everywhere,  from  the  frightful  table 
in  the  big  room,  to  the  coffin  top  covered 
with  brocade  on  the  terrace!  The  sun 
no  longer  shone  as  brightly  as  before,  the 
grass  had  lost  its  freshness,  the  butter- 


84  MITYA’S  LOVE 
flies  on  the  lawn, — the  top  of  which  only 
was  warm, — nothing  was  as  it  had  been 
twenty-four  hours  earlier,  everything  had 
changed  as  if  the  end  of  the  world  were 
near,  and  the  beauty  of  spring,  of  its 
eternal  youth,  had  become  sad  and  joy- 
less. This  feeling  lasted  a long  time,  it 
kept  recurring  all  spring  whenever  he 
smelled,  or  thought  he  smelled  in  that 
well-cleaned  and  well-aired  house,  that 
abominable  and  sweetish  odour  . . . 

Sometimes  now  Mitya  felt  the  same 
haunting  fear,  but  it  had  a different  qual- 
ity this  spring.  The  spring  of  his  first 
love  was  altogether  different  from  all 
other  springs!  Again  his  world  had 
changed  and  was  filled  with  a strange 
quality  neither  hostile  nor  to  be  feared, 
but  on  the  contrary  admirably  suited  to 
the  joy  and  youth  of  springtime.  The 
world  was  filled  with  Katya,  or  rather 


MITYA’S  LOVE  85 

with  his  desire  for  her,  for  that  most  beau- 
tiful  of  all  human  experiences,  which 
Mitya  wanted  to  secure  from  her.  He 
wanted  her  more  and  more  as  the  spring 
days  went  by.  And  since  she  was  not 
there,  since  he  had  only  his  image  of 
her  to  desire,  and  that  altogether  ideal- 
ised, he  felt  there  was  nothing  wrong  in 
his  innocent  and  beautiful  desire.  Wher- 
ever he  went,  whatever  he  did,  he  felt 
it  more  and  more  deeply. 


CHAPTER  XI 


FROM  the  first  week  of  his  stay  at 
home  he  suddenly  saw  with  joy  that  the 
spring  had  only  begun.  Seated  with  an 
open  book  near  the  drawing-room  win- 
dow, he  looked  through  the  trunks  of  the 
firs  and  pines  on  the  plot  in  front  of  the 
house  towards  the  dirty  little  stream  run- 
ning across  the  fields  and  the  village  on 
the  hills  behind  it;  in  the  neighbouring 
gardens,  on  the  bare  century-old  birches, 
the  rooks  tirelessly  cawed  from  morning 
till  night,  excited  by  their  happiness,  for 
they  caw  only  in  the  spring;  on  the  slopes, 
the  village  still  looked  wild  and  grey  as 
yet,  and  only  the  willows  were  covered 
with  a soft  yellow  foliage.  Mitya  went 
into  the  garden.  The  garden  was  also 

bare  and  dwarf-like  but  full  of  light. 

86 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


87 


Only  the  lawns  were  green  and  strewn 
with  turquoise  blue  flowers,  along  the 
paths  the  bushes  had  leaves  and  in  the 
ravine  which  crossed  the  southern  and 
lower  part  of  the  garden  where  there  was 
a cherry  orchard,  the  trees  were  covered 
with  small  white  flowers.  Mitya  went 
into  the  fields.  They  were  also  empty 
and  grey,  the  stubbles  stood  up  like  the 
bristles  of  a hair-brush,  the  dry  pathways 
were  still  violet  and  rough.  Everywhere 
was  the  bareness  of  youth  at  the  period 
of  expectancy, — and  everywhere  was 
Katya.  It  was  only  superficially  that 
his  attention  was  occupied  by  the  girls 
from  the  village  who  worked  on  the  es- 
tate, by  the  workmen  in  the  outhouses, 
by  his  walks,  his  reading,  the  visits  he 
paid  to  people  he  knew  in  the  village, 
his  conversations  with  his  mother,  the  ex- 
peditions in  droschki  which  he  made 


88 


MITYA’S  LO  Y E 


through  the  fields  with  the  starost,  a re- 
tired soldier,  tall  and  very  brusque  in 
his  manners. 

Another  week  passed.  After  a night 
of  torrential  rain,  the  warm  sun  suddenly 
gathered  strength  and  changed  every- 
thing, not  day  by  day,  but  hour  by  hour. 
The  ploughing  went  on,  the  stubble  be- 
came black  velvet,  the  pathways  through 
the  fields  green,  the  grass  in  the  yard 
thickened,  the  blue  of  the  sky  deepened 
and  grew  brighter,  the  garden  was  speed- 
ily covered  by  verdure  fresh  and  pleas- 
ing to  the  eye.  The  grey  lilac  bushes 
turned  mauve  and  perfumed  the  air,  on 
the  dark  green  of  their  varnished  foliage 
and  in  the  warm  spots  of  light  in  the 
avenues  appeared  swarms  of  black  flies 
with  wings  of  a shining  metallic  blue. 
The  branches  of  the  apple-  and  pear-trees 
were  still  visible,  hardly  touched  by  a 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


89 


greyish  foliage  of  a very  soft  colour,  but 
to  take  the  place  of  the  leaves  there  were 
already  masses  of  blossoms.  The  apple- 
and  pear-trees  which  spread  their  gnarled 
boughs  under  the  other  trees  were  a mass 
of  curly,  milky  snow.  Each  day  their 
blossoms  became  whiter  and  thicker  and 
smelled  sweeter. 

All  that  marvellous  time,  while  Mitya 
was  watching  attentively  and  joyfully  all 
the  changes  the  spring  brought  in  his  sur- 
roundings, Katya  did  not  fade,  did  not 
disappear  into  the  distance.  On  the  con- 
trary she  herself  became  a part  of  it,  her 
beauty  grew  as  the  spring  became  more 
and  more  wonderful,  as  the  garden  be- 
came more  magnificently  white  and  the 
sky  a deeper  and  deeper  blue. 


CHAPTER  XII 


LATE  one  afternoon,  as  he  came  in  for 
tea  to  the  room  full  of  the  bright  sun- 
shine which  precedes  the  evening,  Mitya 
saw  near  the  samovar  the  mail  for  which 
he  had  waited  in  vain  all  morning.  He 
went  quickly  to  the  table, — Katya  ought 
to  have  answered  at  least  one  of  the  letters 
he  had  sent  her,  a long,  long  time  ago, — 
and  his  restless  eyes  saw  a smart  envelope 
on  which  was  the  familiar  small  hand- 
writing. He  picked  it  up  and  left  the 
house,  crossing  the  garden  through  its 
main  avenue.  He  went  off  into  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  garden  where  it 
came  to  an  end  at  a ravine.  There  he 
stopped,  looked  all  about  him,  and  hur- 
riedly tore  open  the  envelope.  The  let- 
ter was  short,  only  a few  lines,  but  Mitya 
was  so  excited  that  he  had  to  re-read  it 

90 


MITYA’S  LOVE  91 

half  a dozen  times  before  he  understood 
it.  His  heart  was  beating  very  quickly. 
“My  beloved,  my  only  one!”  he  read 
again  and  again,  and  the  effect  of  those 
exclamations  was  such  that  he  felt  the 
earth  disappear  from  under  his  feet.  He 
looked  up.  The  sky  shone  above  the  gar- 
den triumphant  and  radiant;  all  around 
the  snowy  whiteness  delighted  his  eyes  ; in 
the  fresh  foliage  of  the  far-away  bushes 
a nightingale,  feeling  already  the  slight 
chill  which  is  the  precursor  of  night,  sang 
with  strength,  clearness  and  all  the  sweet- 
ness of  renunciation, — and  the  blood  flew 
again  to  Mitya’s  face  and  he  felt  his  head 
tingle  . . . 

Slowly  he  came  back  to  the  house — his 
heart  overflowing  with  love,  his  cup  of 
happiness  filled  to  the  brim.  And  in  the 
days  following,  he  carried  it  around  care- 
fully, waiting  for  another  letter,  happy 
and  even  a little  proud. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  days  passed,  but  no  other  letter 
came.  “It  will  come,  it  will  come!” 
Mitya  kept  saying  to  himself,  but  it  did 
not.  Little  by  little,  a hidden  uneasiness 
took  hold  of  him,  troubled  his  happiness 
and  his  peace  not  only  in  the  day  time  but 
even  at  night  while  he  slept. 

The  garden  became  more  beautiful 
with  varied  colors;  the  flowers  were 
blooming;  the  giant  old  maple  which 
dominated  the  southern  part  of  the  gar- 
den and  could  be  seen  from  all  sides  be- 
came still  bigger  and  more  imposing,  cov- 
ered as  it  was  to  its  highest  branch  with 
a marvellously  bright  and  leafy  richness. 
The  main  avenue  that  Mitya  could  see 
through  his  windows  grew  higher  and 
more  clearly  defined;  its  old  limes  were 

92 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


93 


also  covered  to  the  top,  though  they  were 
still  transparent  in  spite  of  the  interlac- 
ings of  young  foliage  which  spread  over 
the  garden  a light  green  veil.  Beneath 
the  maple,  beneath  the  trees  in  the  ave- 
nue and  driveway  and  all  the  other  leafy 
trees,  a sea  of  creamy  blossoms  perfumed 
the  sunny  air. 

The  top  of  the  dense  and  enormous 
maple,  the  faint  green  mist  of  the  lime- 
trees,  the  nuptial  whiteness  of  the  apples, 
the  pears,  and  the  wild  cherries,  the  sun, 
the  azure  of  the  sky  and  every  plant  in 
blossom  in  the  lower  part  of  the  garden 
near  the  ravine,  along  the  principal  and 
smaller  paths,  or  at  the  foot  of  the  house 
wall,  the  lilac,  acacia  or  gooseberry 
bushes,  the  burdock,  the  nettles,  the 
wormwood, — everything  delighted  and 
surprised  him  by  its  freshness,  its  abun- 
dance and  its  newness. 


94  MITYA’S  LOVE 

The  vegetation  which  surrounded  the 
well-arranged  green  yard  made  it  on  all 
sides  seem  narrower  and  made  the  house 
seem  smaller  and  prettier.  It  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  visitors.  For  days  at  a 
stretch  all  the  doors  and  windows  were 
open  in  every  room  in  the  white  sitting- 
room,  in  the  old-fashioned  blue  drawing- 
room, in  the  little  boudoir,  blue  also  and 
decorated  with  miniatures,  and  in  the 
sunny  library,  a big  empty  room  in  the 
angle  of  the  house  with  ancient  ikons  in 
the  place  of  honour  and  low  ash  book- 
cases along  the  walls.  The  gaily  decked 
trees  came  close  to  the  house  and  looked 
into  all  the  rooms  with  their  foliage  of 
varied  hues,  sometimes  light  green,  some- 
times dark,  with  the  bright  blue  of  the 
sky  showing  between  their  branches. 

But  the  letter  did  not  come,  and  Mitya 
felt  uneasy.  He  knew  that  Katya  did  not 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


95 


like  writing,  he  knew  that  it  was  difficult 
for  her  to  sit  down  at  her  table  and  to 
find  a pen,  paper,  an  envelope,  and  it  was 
even  more  difficult  for  her  to  remember 
to  buy  a stamp  and  to  stop  at  a letter- 
box. He  told  himself  that  he  had  felt 
perfectly  contented  for  a whole  fortnight 
before  he  received  the  first  letter  but,  as 
in  Moscow,  these  reasonable  considera- 
tions helped  him  little.  The  happy  and 
proud  assurance  with  which  a few  days 
before  he  had  expected  a second  letter 
had  left  him;  he  was  longing  for  word 
and  worrying  more  and  more,  because  a 
letter  like  the  first  ought  to  have  been 
followed  by  something  more  beautiful 
and  more  delightful  still.  But  Katya  re- 
mained silent. 

Now  he  went  only  rarely  to  the  village 
and  to  the  fields.  For  some  time  he  even 
remained  in  the  library  searching  the 


96  MITYA’S  LOVE 
bookcases,  turning  over  the  pages  of  re- 
views which  had  been  there  drying  and 
yellowing  for  years.  He  did  not  like 
reading — Protassov  had  always  called 
him  “an  illiterate,”  but  in  those  old  re- 
views were  a lot  of  beautiful  verses  from 
the  ancient  poets,  marvellous  poems 
which,  of  course,  almost  always  spoke  of 
the  same  thing, — the  thing  which  has  in- 
spired and  filled  all  the  verses  and  all  the 
songs  since  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
and  on  which  his  soul  was  feasting.  He 
found  that  invariably  he  could  apply 
them  to  himself,  to  his  love,  to  Katya. 

It  was  during  a marvellous  spring, 
They  sat  on  the  river  bank, 

She,  in  the  flower  of  her  youth, 

He,  a growing  boy  . . . 

Often  he  stayed  for  whole  hours  in  the 
sunny  calm  of  the  library,  sitting  quietly 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


97 


in  an  armchair  near  the  open  bookcase, 
torturing  himself  delightfully  by  reading 
again  and  again: 

The  people  sleep ; my  friend,  let  us  go 
into  the  shady  garden; 

The  people  sleep  and  only  the  stars  look 
at  us. 

They  can  see  but  dimly  through  the 
branches, 

They  cannot  hear  us  though  the  night- 
ingale does. 

No,  after  all,  he  doesn't : he  sings  too  loud. 
Only  our  hearts  hear  us, 

They  know  how  many  joys, 

How  much  happiness  we  have  had  here. 

All  those  love  poems,  all  those  appeals 
seemed  to  have  been  written  by  him,  ad- 
dressed to  the  one  whom  he,  Mitya,  could 
not  help  seeing  everywhere  and  in  every- 


98  MITYA’S  LOVE 

thing,  but  sometimes  he  seemed  to  find  a 
warning  in  some  of  them: 

The  swans  are  beating 

The  calm  waters  with  their  wings 

And  the  river  undulates. 

Come,  the  stars  are  shining, 

Gently  the  leaves  are  rustling 
And  the  clouds  gather  . . . 

Closing  his  eyes,  trembling,  he  repeated 
this  appeal  several  times,  this  cry  from  a 
heart  filled  with  amorous  passion,  eager 
for  triumph  and  for  a happy  ending. 
Then  he  looked  for  a long  time  at  the 
white  garden  beneath  the  window,  the 
green  bushes,  his  grandfather’s  maple, 
king  of  the  whole  garden;  he  listened 
to  the  deep  silence  of  the  country  which 
surrounded  the  house  and  he  shook  his 
head  bitterly.  No,  she  did  not  answer, 


MITYA’S  LOVE 


99 


she  was  shining  somewhere,  in  that 
strange  and  far  away  world  of  Moscow, 
deaf  to  his  appeal!  Was  it  her  place? 
Had  he  not  said  to  her: 

Do  you  remember , Marie, 

An  ancient  house 

And  the  century-old  limes 

Above  the  slumbering  pond, 

The  silent  alleys, 

The  old  deserted  garden 
And  in  the  high  gallery 
The  ancient  portraits? 

Inexplicable  tears  came  to  his  eyes 
while  he  read  those  verses  which  really 
fitted  his  love  so  little  and  yet  touched 
him,  he  did  not  know  why,  and  made  him 
suffer  : 


1 am  yours,  dear  oak-grove! 
But  I do  not  come  alone 


100  MITYA’S  LOVE 


To  ask  your  protective  shelter 
Against  contrary  fate. 

I bring  to  your  sacred  shades 
The  companion  of  my  prayers, 

My  young  wife, 

With  a child  in  her  arms  . . . 

But  more  often  he  was  carried  away 
into  quite  another  world: 

The  warm  midday  invites  me  to  rest, 
Every  sound  has  stopped  amongst  the 
leaves. 

In  each  perfumed  and  gorgeous  rose 
A brilliant  beetle  sleeps  contentedly. 

As  he  read  he  dreamed  passionately  of 
his  meeting  with  Katya  in  the  Crimea  and 
of  the  town  of  Miskhor  which  he  could 
easily  imagine  as  he  had  already  been 
twice  in  the  Crimea.  Heavens,  could  it 


MITYA’S  LOVE  101 
be  possible  that  after  having  waited  so 
long,  he  would  never  see  that  burning 
midday,  the  roses,  the  oleanders,  the  sea 
flashing  blue  between  the  cypresses? 
Could  God  deprive  him  of  the  happiness 
of  telling  her  some  day: 

Do  you  remember  the  evening  when  the 
sea  roared 

And  in  the  wild  rose-bush  the  nightingale 
sang, 

And  the  perfumed  branches  of  the  white 
acacia 

Bent  caressingly  over  you? 

This  insoluble  question  made  him 
shiver  with  cold  and  left  him  pale;  he 
would  look  stupidly  before  him  and  then 
slowly  he  would  lower  his  head.  And 
again,  the  sadness  of  his  love  melted  and 
filled  his  heart.  Something  grew  within 


102  MITYA’S  LOVE 


him,  something  sinister  and  cruel,  pas 
sionate  and  formidable,  like  a fatal  ad 
juration: 

The  swans  are  beating 

The  calm  waters  with  their  wings 

And  the  river  undulates. 

Come,  the  stars  are  shining, 

Gently  the  leaves  are  rustling 
And  the  tlouds  gather  . . . 


0 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE  day,  after  taking  a nap  in  the 
afternoon, — they  dined  at  twelve — Mitya 
came  out  of  the  house  and  walked  slowly 
into  the  garden.  Some  girls  were  work- 
ing there,  as  they  often  did,  spading  the 
earth  under  the  apple-trees.  Mitya  went 
to  sit  beside  them  and  chat  a little  as  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  doing. 

The  day  was  calm  and  warm.  Mitya 
walked  in  the  sunny  shade  of  the  avenue 
and  could  see  in  the  distance  on  his  right 
the  white  curly  branches  stretching  out 
under  the  sun.  The  blossoming  of  the 
pear-trees  was  particularly  vigorous  and 
abundant  that  year,  and  all  that  white- 
ness against  the  bright  azure  of  the  sky 
gave  a violet  reflection.  Both  the  pear- 

trees  and  apple-trees  had  shaken  off  many 
103 


104  MITYA’S  LOVE 


blossoms,  and  the  ground  underneath 
them  was  covered  with  faded  petals.  He 
could  smell  their  sweet  perfume  mixed 
with  the  odour  of  manure  fermenting  in 
the  cattle-yard.  From  time  to  time,  a 
small  cloud  passed  in  the  sky  and 
changed  in  color  from  a violent  crude 
blue  to  a much  lighter  shade.  The  putrid 
smells  became  softer  and  sweeter.  And 
all  the  warm  torpor  of  that  spring  para- 
dise was  filled  with  the  solemn  and  happy 
buzzing  of  drones  buried  in  the  curly 
snow  of  tree-flowers.  All  the  while,  in 
happy  boredom,  a nightingale  piped  as 
by  moonlight. 

The  avenue  ended  in  the  distance  at 
a gate  which  led  to  the  threshing-ground. 
Down  there,  on  the  left,  in  the  corner 
of  the  garden  slope,  was  a dark  fir-grove. 
Near  the  firs,  among  the  apple-trees,  two 
girls  made  a vivid  spot  of  color.  As  al- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  105 


ways,  Mitya  went  towards  them  from  the 
centre  of  the  avenue  and  bending,  passed 
under  the  low  outstretched  branches 
smelling  of  lemon  and  honey  which 
touched  his  face  with  a feminine  caress; 
and  as  always,  one  of  the  girls,  the  thin 
and  red-haired  Sonka,  as  soon  as  she  saw 
him  burst  into  wild  laughter: 

“Oh,  there  is  the  Master!”  she  cried, 
simulating  fear.  Jumping  down  from 
the  big  branch  of  a pear-tree  on  which 
she  had  been  resting,  she  rushed  to  her 
spade. 

On  the  contrary,  however,  Clachka, 
another  girl,  acted  as  if  she  had  not  seen 
Mitya  and  leaned  squarely  and  leisurely 
on  the  iron  of  her  spade,  her  foot  cov- 
ered with  a supple  shoe  of  black  felt 
sewn  with  white  flowers.  She  put  her 
spade  in  the  ground  with  force  and,  turn- 
ing over  the  clods,  began  to  sing  loudly 


106  MITYA’S  LOVE 


with  a strong  but  agreeable  voice:  “For 
whom  is  my  garden  flowering?”  She  was 
a tall  girl  with  masculine  features,  al- 
ways grave. 

Mitya  came  nearer  and  sat  in  Sonka’s 
place  on  the  old  pear-tree  branch,  on 
which  the  handle  of  the  plough  was  lean- 
ing. Sonka  looked  quickly  up  at  him  and 
asked  roughly,  exaggerating  her  familiar- 
ity and  gaiety: 

“Have  you  just  got  out  of  bed?  You 
must  have  been  dreaming  a beautiful 
dream?  Didn’t  you  hear  the  nightingale 
under  your  window?  Watch  out!  You’ll 
miss  your  chance!” 

Mitya  appealed  to  her  and  she  tried  in 
every  way  to  hide  it,  but  in  vain.  When 
he  was  present  she  was  awkward  and 
spoke  nervously,  but  with  constant  allu- 
sions, obscurely  guessing  that  Mitya’s 
continual  air  of  abstraction  was  not  nat- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  107 


ural.  She  suspected  him  of  paying  at- 
tention to  Paracha,  or,  at  least,  of  watch- 
ing her.  She  was  jealous  and  she  spoke 
tenderly  and  roughly  to  him  by  turns, 
and  she  looked  at  him,  sometimes  with 
a longing  which  showed  her  feelings 
plainly,  and  sometimes  with  a hostile 
coldness.  All  that  gave  Mitya  a pleas- 
urable sensation. 

And  still  the  letter  did  not  come.  He 
had  stopped  living  and  was  simply  exist- 
ing from  day  to  day,  and  more  and  more 
depressed  by  this  perpetual  waiting  and 
by  the  impossibility  of  finding  some  one 
to  whom  he  could  confide  the  secret  of 
his  love  and  of  his  torment,  some  one  to 
whom  he  could  talk  of  Katya  and  of  his 
hope  of  going  to  the  Crimea.  That  was 
why  the  allusions  Sonka  made  to  his  love 
were  pleasing  to  him.  However  remote 
they  might  be  those  conversations  seemed 


108  MITYA’S  LOVE 
to  caress  the  mystery  which  made  him 
suffer  so.  He  was  also  moved  because 
Sonka  was  in  love  with  him,  which 
brought  them  a little  nearer  to  each  other 
and  made  her  in  some  way  an  accomplice 
in  his  amorous  life.  He  was  filled  with 
the  strange  hope  that  Sonka  might  be- 
come his  confidante  or  might  even  re- 
place Katya  up  to  a certain  point.  This 
was  only,  of  course,  because  Sonka  was 
also  a young  girl,  that  mysterious  and 
terrible  thing,  a woman,  the  femininity 
for  which  he  was  thirsting  so  greedily. 

Once  again,  Sonka  had  unknowingly 
touched  his  secret:  “Watch  out,  don’t 
miss  your  chance!”  He  looked  around 
him.  In  front,  the  dark  green  mass  of 
the  fir-grove  was  almost  black  in  that 
blinding  light,  and  the  sky  through  the 
tree  tops  was  of  a particularly  splendid 
blue.  The  young  leaves  of  the  lime  trees, 


MITYA’S  LOVE  109 


the  maples,  the  elms,  all  radiant  in  the 
sun  which  shone  through  on  every  side, 
formed  above  the  garden  a light  and  gay 
shelter,  and  made  patterns  of  light  and 
shade  on  the  grass,  the  paths,  and  the 
lawns.  Under  that  shelter  the  white  flow- 
ers, warm  and  perfumed,  gleaming  where 
the  sun  penetrated  to  them,  were  made  of 
porcelain.  Mitya  thought: 

There  is  no  better  shelter  in  the  world 
Than  sleepy  maples  with  shady  foliage; 
There  are  no  better  tresses  in  the  world 
Than  the  perfumed  tresses  of  her  beloved 
head  . . . 

Smiling  in  spite  of  himself  he  asked 
Sonka:  “What  chance  could  I miss  by 
sleeping?  I don’t  know  what  you  mean?” 

“Don’t  say  that!”  answered  Sonka  in  a 
quick,  curt  tone.  Mitya  was  still  more 


110  MITYA’S  LOVE 


pleased  by  her  seeming  doubt  that  he 
could  be  without  amorous  intrigues.  Sud- 
denly she  began  shouting  at  a small  red 
calf  with  a tuft  of  white  and  curly  hair 
upon  his  forehead,  which  had  come 
slowly  out  of  the  fir-grove  behind  her 
and  had  started  eating  the  flounces  of 
her  calico  dress: 

“Will  you  leave  me  alone!” 

“Is  it  true  that  some  one  wants  to  marry 
you?”  asked  Mitya,  who  did  not  know 
what  to  say  and  wanted  to  keep  up  the 
conversation.  “I  hear  the  family  is  rich 
and  the  man  good-looking  but  that  you 
have  refused  him,  that  you  won’t  obey 
your  father  . . 

“He  is  rich  but  stupid.  Night  comes 
quickly  in  his  head,”  answered  Sonka  at 
once,  secretly  pleased.  “Perhaps  I am 
thinking  of  another  . . .” 

The  serious  and  silent  Clachka  shook 


MITYA’S  LOVE  111 


her  head  without  interrupting  her  work: 

“You’re  talking  nonsense,”  she  said, 
and  added  in  an  undertone,  “there  will 
be  gossip  in  the  village  . . 

“All  right,  shut  up!  Don’t  preach!” 
shouted  Sonka.  “I  am  not  a rook,  I know 
how  to  take  care  of  myself.” 

“Who  is  the  other  you  are  thinking 
about?”  asked  Mitya. 

“Of  course,  I’ll  tell  you!”  replied 
Sonka.  “Look  here,  I am  in  love  with 
your  old  shepherd.  When  I see  him,  I 
feel  warm  all  over!  I am  like  you,  I 
like  them  old,”  she  went  on  provokingly, 
doubtless  making  an  allusion  to  Paracha, 
who  was  twenty  and  was  already  con- 
sidered to  be  an  old  maid  in  the  village. 
And  suddenly  letting  her  spade  go,  with 
an  audacity  to  which  her  secret  love  for 
the  young  master  gave  her  a sort  of  right, 
she  sat  down  on  the  ground,  let  her  arms 


I 


112  MITYA’S  LOVE 


fall,  stretched  and  spread  her  legs  out. 
They  were  covered  with  beige  wool  stock- 
ings and  boots  halfway  to  the  knee. 

“Well,  I have  done  nothing  and  I am 
tired!”  she  shouted  laughingly.  “My 
boots  are  full  of  holes,”  she  sang  in  a 
piercing  voice: 

My  boots  are  full  of  holes, 

Their  tops  are  lacquered, 

It's  all  the  same 
With  girls  and  women! 

She  cried  laughingly,  “Come  and  rest 
with  me  in  the  hut,  I am  ready  for  any- 
thing!” Her  laughter  infected  Mitya. 
With  a broad  shy  smile,  he  slid  from  the 
branch  and  lay  down  and  put  his  head 
upon  her  knees.  Sonka  pushed  him  away 
but  he  lay  down  again,  thinking  in  verse 
— he  had  read  so  much  verse  in  the  last 
days: 


MITYA’S  LOVE  113 

0 Rose,  I see  you:  the  strength  of  happi- 

ness 

Has  unwound  your  shining  bonds 
And  has  sprinkled  them  with  dew . 

How  immense,  unconceivable, 

Delightful  and  marvellous, 

The  world  of  love  appears  to  me! 

“You  mustn’t  touch  me!”  cried  Sonka, 
now  really  frightened,  trying  to  get  up 
and  to  push  away  Mitya’s  head  which 
rested  heavily  upon  her  knees. 

“If  you  don’t  get  up,”  she  said,  “I  am 
going  to  shout  loud  enough  to  make  the 
wolves  howl  in  the  forest.  I have  noth- 
ing for  you  Î It  burned,  but  it  is  out  now  ! 

1 am  loud  and  thin  and  I don’t  suit  you 
at  all!” 

Mitya  had  shut  his  eyes  and  was  silent. 
The  sun  scattered  through  the  foliage  and 
the  branches  and  the  flowers  of  the  pear- 


114  MITYA’S  LOVE 


trees  was  warming  his  face.  Sonka, 
with  a tender  wickedness,  pulled  his 
straight  strong  hair, — “like  horse-hair,” 
she  cried, — and  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
cap.  Beneath  the  nape  of  his  neck  he  could 
feel  Sonka’s  legs,  the  most  terrible  thing 
in  the  world — a woman’s  legs!  The  top 
of  his  head  touched  the  young  girl’s 
belly,  he  could  smell  her  skirt  and  her 
calico  blouse.  It  was  all  one  with  the 
garden  in  flower  and  with  Katya,  with 
the  languorous  piping  of  the  nightingales 
near  and  far  away,  the  unceasing  buzz 
of  innumerable  bees,  a voluptuous  sleep- 
inducing  sound,  with  the  warm  air  smell- 
ing of  honey  and  even  with  the  simple 
feeling  of  the  earth  underneath  his  back. 
All  tormented  him  and  left  him  thirst- 
ing for  an  abstract  happiness.  Suddenly 
something  moved  in  the  fir-grove,  burst 


MITYA’S  LOVE  115 
out  with  a gay  and  wicked  laugh,  then  a 
clarion  “cuckoo”  was  heard,  so  sharp,  so 
near,  so  frightful,  so  distinct  that  one 
could  hear  the  rattling  and  the  trembling 
of  the  little  pointed  tongue.  Then  the 
desire  to  have  Katya,  the  thirst  to  ob- 
tain from  her,  at  all  costs,  immediately, 
this  superhuman  happiness  took  hold  of 
Mitya  so  furiously  that  to  Sonka’s  ex- 
treme surprise,  he  rose  suddenly  and 
strode  away,  shouting  back  to  her  with 
a forced  laugh: 

“I  think  I had  better  go  and  have  tea. 
I come  very  near  to  misbehaving  when  I 
am  with  you  !” 

At  the  instant  when  this  passion,  this 
thirst  for  glory  had  come  to  him,  under 
the  influence  of  that  voice  which  had  sud- 
denly burst  out  of  the  fir-grove  with  such 
terrible  clearness,  burst,  as  it  were,  from 


116  MITYA’S  LOVE 


the  very  core  of  the  spring,  Mitya  knew 
that  the  letter  would  not  come,  could  not 
come,  that  something  had  happened  in 
Moscow,  or  that  something  was  going  to 
happen,  that  all  was  lost,  ended! 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEN  he  reached  the  house,  he 
stopped  an  instant  in  front  of  the  mirror 
in  the  big  drawing-room.  “Katya  is 
right,”  he  thought,  “if  my  eyes  are  not 
Byzantine,  they  are  mad.  And  how  thin 
I am,  how  gawky  and  lanky!  Look  at 
those  black  crooked  eyebrows  and  that 
straight  black  hair!  It’s  like  horse-hair, 
just  as  Sonka  says!” 

He  tried  to  smile  with  his  big  mouth, 
with  that  “boyish  and  charming  awk- 
wardness” for  which  Katya  was  supposed 
to  love  him.  As  a matter  of  fact,  though 
forced,  his  smile  made  him  look  much 
better.  He  felt,  himself,  how  boyish,  how 
tender  and  how  defenceless  it  was. 

Behind  him  he  heard  the  quick  patter- 
ing of  bare  feet.  He  turned  uneasily. 

117 


118  MITYA’S  LOVE 


“You  are  always  looking  at  yourself  in. 
the  mirror,  you  must  have  fallen  in  love,” 
Paracha  teased  him  affectionately,  as  she 
passed  in  front  of  him  with  a boiling 
samovar,  hurrying  towards  the  terrace. 

“Your  mother  was  looking  for  you,” 
she  added,  laying  the  samovar  on  the 
tea-table.  Turning  around,  she  looked  at 
Mitya  keenly  and  penetratingly. 

“Everybody  knows,  everybody  guesses,” 
thought  Mitya,  and  he  asked  with  an 
effort: 

“Where  is  she?” 

“In  her  room.  She  is  going  to  have 
tea  now  . . .” 

The  sun  had  gone  around  to  the  other 
side  of  the  house  and  was  already  drop- 
ping in  the  West.  Light  shadows  were 
cast  by  the  firs  and  pines  which  shaded 
the  terrace.  Underneath  them  the  prick- 
wood  bushes  shone  all  over  like  glass,  as 


MITYA’S  LOVE  119 

if  in  the  heat  of  midsummer.  The  par- 
tially shaded  table  cloth  gleamed  white, 
spotted  here  and  there  by  glaring  sun- 
light. The  wasps  were  flying  over  the 
white  bread,  the  cups,  and  the  cut  glass 
jar  full  of  jam.  The  whole  scene  spoke 
of  the  beautiful  rustic  summer  and  how 
happy  and  carefree  one  could  be.  He 
must  go  to  his  mother,  who  naturally  un- 
derstood better  than  any  one  what  was 
the  matter  with  him,  and  show  her  that 
he  had  no  great  secret.  Mitya  left  the 
drawing-room  and  went  along  the  pas- 
sage on  which  opened  his  room,  his 
mother’s  room  and  two  others  which  Anya 
and  Kostya  occupied  in  the  summer.  The 
passage  was  dark  and  Olga  Petrovna’s 
room  all  done  in  blue.  Small  and  very 
intimate,  it  was  crowded  with  the  oldest 
pieces  of  furniture  in  the  house,  work 
tables,  highboys,  a big  bed,  ikons  in  front 


120  MITYA’S  LOVE 


of  which  burned,  always,  a night  light, 
although  Olga  Petrovna  was  not  very  re- 
ligious. In  front  of  the  open  windows 
a wide  shadow  spread  over  a bed  of  neg- 
lected flowers  situated  just  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  central  avenue.  Beyond  that 
shade,  the  garden,  radiantly  green  and 
white,  had  no  protection  from  the  rays 
of  the  sun. 

Unmoved  by  this  scene,  which  she 
knew  well,  Olga  Petrovna,  a woman  forty 
years  old,  tall  and  thin,  dark  and  serious, 
her  eyes  retreating  behind  spectacles,  was 
seated  beside  the  window  in  an  armchair. 
She  was  bent  over  her  knitting,  moving 
her  needles  rapidly. 

“Did  you  want  anything,  mother?”  said 
Mitya,  stopping  on  the  threshold. 

“No,  I simply  wanted  to  see  you.  I 
only  see  you  at  dinner  now,”  she  an- 
swered without  interrupting  her  work 


MITYA’S  LOVE  121 

and  with  an  extraordinary,  almost  exag- 
gerated calmness. 

Mitya  remembered  the  ninth  of  March, 
when  Katya  had  said  that,  without  know- 
ing why,  she  was  afraid  of  his  mother;  he 
recalled  the  adorable  meaning  which  was 
doubtlessly  hidden  in  those  words,  and 
he  wanted  to  rest  his  head  upon  his 
mother’s  knee  and  cry  bitter  tears.  He 
muttered  awkwardly: 

“But  perhaps  you  had  something  to  tell 
me?” 

“Nothing,  except  that  you  seem  to  be 
bored  lately,”  answered  Olga  Petrovna. 
“Why  don’t  you  go  and  see  some  of  our 
neighbours,  the  Metcherskys,  for  ex- 
ample? . . . A house  full  of  young  girls 
just  the  right  age  to  get  married,”  she 
added  smiling.  “It  is  a very  nice  family, 
in  my  opinion,  and  very  hospitable.” 

“I’d  like  to  go  one  of  these  days,”  Mitya 


122  MITYA’S  LOVE 


said,  making  a great  effort.  “But  let’s 
have  tea,  it  is  so  nice  upon  the  terrace  . . . 
We’ll  be  able  to  talk,”  he  added,  know- 
ing perfectly  well  that  his  mother  was 
too  tactful  and  too  discreet  to  come  back 
to  such  a senseless  subject. 

They  remained  upon  the  terrace  till  it 
was  time  to  go  to  bed.  After  tea,  Mitya’s 
mother  went  on  knitting  and  speaking 
about  her  neighbours  and  about  Anya 
and  Kostya, — “Anya  must  go  up  for  her 
examination  in  August,” — and  about  the 
house.  Mitya  listened,  sometimes  an- 
swering, and  feeling  as  he  had  the  day 
before  he  had  left  Moscow;  again  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in  the  throes 
of  a very  grave  illness,  and  that  he  was 
enduring  a new  separation.  Surely  some- 
thing terrible  must  have  happened  in 
Moscow!  The  separation  this  time  was 
so  agonising  that  in  comparison,  their 


MITYA’S  LOVE  123 


parting  a month  ago  seemed  like  a mo- 
ment of  blissful  happiness  . . . 

After  his  mother  had  gone  upstairs,  he 
walked  ceaselessly  back  and  forth  for  two 
hours,  he  went  through  the  large  and 
small  drawing-room,  the  boudoir  and  the 
library,  to  the  open  window  looking  upon 
the  garden,  on  the  south  side  of  the  house. 
Through  the  branches  of  the  pines  and 
the  firs  the  setting  sun  reddened  the  win- 
dows of  the  drawing-room.  He  could 
hear  the  voices  and  the  laughter  of  the 
labourers  who  had  assembled  for  their 
supper  near  the  servants’  quarters.  As 
he  walked  he  could  see  through  the  li- 
brary window  the  bare  and  colourless 
azure  of  the  evening  sky,  and  a motionless 
pink  star;  against  this  azure  background 
were  drawn  picturesquely  the  green  top 
of  the  maple  and  the  wintry  whiteness  of 
all  the  blossoms  in  the  garden.  He  kept 


124  MITYA’S  LOVE 
walking  on,  without  thinking  about  what 
would  be  said  in  the  house.  His  teeth 
were  clenched  so  tight  that  he  had  a 
headache. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ONE  day,  shortly  after,  his  love  passed 
through  a terrible  crisis. 

He  had  stopped  observing  the  changes 
the  spring  and  approaching  summer  were 
bringing  all  around  him.  He  saw  them 
and  even  felt  them  but  they  had  lost  their 
value  and  only  tortured  him  more.  The 
more  beautiful  his  surroundings  grew, 
the  more  he  suffered.  Katya  was  haunt- 
ing him  day  and  night,  she  was  in  every- 
thing and  at  the  back  of  everything  to 
the  point  of  absurdity.  As  each  new  day 
confirmed  his  always  more  poignant  con- 
viction that  Katya  did  not  exist  any  more, 
that  she  was  doing  some  unspeakable 
thing,  giving  herself  and  the  love  which 
ought  to  be  reserved  entirely  for  him,  to 

another, — then  the  whole  world  seemed 
125 


126  MITYA’S  LOVE 


to  be  wrong,  useless,  painful,  the  more 
useless  and  painful  because  it  was  grow- 
ing more  beautiful  every  day. 

On  every  side  life  went  on  the  same 
as  usual,  accomplishing  as  best  it  could 
what  it  had  to  do.  He  alone  stood  aside, 
doing  nothing,  but  aspiring  to  an  equal 
necessity,  a necessity  a hundred  times 
greater  than  all  the  rest.  But  at  the  same 
time  it  became  clearer  and  clearer  to  him 
how  incommensurable  and  absolutely  un- 
realisable  it  was. 

He  hardly  slept.  The  charm  of  those 
moonlight  nights  was  incomparable. 
Softly,  softly,  the  garden  grew  milky 
white.  Prudently,  worn  out  with  de- 
lights, the  nightingales  sang,  their  songs 
vying  with  each  other  in  purity,  fineness, 
clarity  and  brilliance.  The  lovely  pale 
moon  hung  tenderly  just  above  the  gar- 
den, faithfully  accompanied  by  a soft 


MITYA’S  LOVE  127 


breeze  and  bluish  clouds.  Mitya  went 
to  bed  with  his  curtains  open  and  all  night 
long  the  moon  and  the  garden  looked  into 
his  room  through  the  windows.  Each 
time  he  opened  his  eyes  he  looked  at  the 
moon  and  said:  “Katya!”  to  himself  with 
such  ecstasy  and  sorrow  that  it  frightened 
him.  Why  indeed  should  the  moon  bring 
her  name  to  his  lips?  Yet  it  reminded 
him  of  her  and,  astonishingly,  looked  like 
Katya!  Sometimes  he  simply  saw  noth- 
ing. His  desire  for  Katya,  the  memory 
of  the  bond  between  them  when  they 
were  alone  in  Moscow,  possessed  him 
with  such  violence  that  he  trembled  as 
with  fever.  His  teeth  chattered  and  he 
asked  God, — always  in  vain, — to  let  him 
have  Katya  with  him,  on  the  bed,  if  only 
in  a dream.  Once  he  had  gone  with  her 
to  the  Great  Theatre,  to  hear  Faust,  with 
Sobinov  and  Chaliapin.  Without  know- 


128  MITYA’S  LOVE 

ing  why,  that  evening  had  appeared  to 
him  particularly  wonderful:  the  wide 
abyss,  already  too  hot  and  stuffy,  opening 
under  their  eyes,  the  tiers  of  red  velvet 
and  the  gold  of  the  boxes  overflowing 
with  brilliant  dresses,  and  above  the 
pearly  light  of  a gigantic  chandelier;  the 
sounds  of  the  orchestra  playing  far  below 
beneath  the  orchestra  leader’s  baton, 
sometimes  with  demonic  thunder,  some- 
times with  infinite  melancholy  and  ten- 
derness . . . There  was  a King  of 
Thule  . . . After  the  performance  he 
had  seen  Katya  home  through  the  very 
cold  moonlight  night,  and  he  had  re- 
mained with  her  later  than  ever  before. 
He  had  been  more  than  ever  exhausted 
by  her  kisses  and  he  had  taken  away  with 
him  the  silk  ribbon  with  which  she  tied 
her  hair  for  the  night.  Now  all  through 
those  torturing  May  nights  he  could  never 


MITYA’S  LOVE  129 


think  about  the  ribbon,  hidden  close  by  in 
a drawer  in  his  writing  desk,  without 
shuddering. 

He  would  sleep  all  day  and  in  the  eve- 
ning go  on  horseback  to  the  village,  where 
there  was  a station  and  a post-office.  The 
days  were  still  beautiful.  Occasionally  it 
rained,  storms  and  showers  came  and 
went,  but  the  warm  sun  shone  again,  ac- 
complishing ceaselessly  its  work  in  the 
gardens,  the  fields,  and  the  woods.  The 
garden  had  finished  its  blossoming  and 
was  losing  its  flowers  but,  to  make  up 
for  that,  it  became  thicker  and  darker. 
Already  the  woods  were  covered  with 
innumerable  flowers  and  tall  grasses  and, 
through  the  voices  of  the  nightingales 
and  cuckoos,  their  echoing  shadows  called 
a summons  to  the  depths  of  their  green- 
ery. Long  ago,  the  vast  virginal  naked- 
ness of  the  land  had  disappeared  and  now 


130  MITYA’S  LOVE 


it  was  entirely  covered  by  rich  growing 
wheat.  Mitya  spent  whole  days  in  the 
woods  and  in  the  fields. 

He  was  ashamed  to  stay  each  morning 
upon  the  terrace  or  in  the  yard,  waiting 
vainly  for  the  starost  or  some  workman 
coming  from  the  post-office.  Moreover, 
the  starost  and  the  workmen  did  not  al- 
ways have  the  time  to  do  eight  versts  for 
nothing.  So  he  got  into  the  habit  of 
going  himself  to  the  post-office,  but  he 
also  came  back  with  only  a newspaper  or 
a letter  from  Anya  or  Kostya.  His  tor- 
ments had  reached  the  breaking  point. 
The  meadows  and  the  groves  he  went 
through  crushed  him  with  their  beauty 
and  their  fulfilment  and  he  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  a continuous  physical  pain 
in  his  chest  which  would  not  leave  him. 
It  seemed  as  if  it  had  settled  there  for 
ever.  Sometimes,  in  the  middle  of  a pas- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  131 


ture,  he  would  stop  his  horse  and  look 
north  into  the  distance,  towards  Mos- 
cow. Then,  blinded  with  tears,  he  would 
bury  his  head  in  his  horse’s  mane. 

One  day  towards  evening,  on  his  way 
back  from  the  post-office,  he  crossed  an 
abandoned  neighbouring  estate,  situated 
in  the  middle  of  a large  old  park  scarcely 
distinguishable  from  the  surrounding  for- 
est of  birches.  He  was  going  through  the 
Beautiful  Perspective,  as  the  peasants 
called  the  principal  avenue  of  that  prop- 
erty. It  was  bordered  by  two  lines 
of  enormous  black  firs.  Magnificently 
sombre,  very  wide  and  covered  with  a 
thick  russet  carpet  of  slippery  needles,  it 
ended  at  the  old  mansion  where  the  two 
lanes  of  the  avenue  joined  each  other. 
The  red  light  of  the  dry  and  peaceful  sun 
which  was  setting  on  the  left  behind  the 
park  and  the  forest  lighted  the  lower 


132  MITYA’S  LOVE 


part  of  the  avenue  obliquely,  between  the 
tree  trunks,  illuminating  its  carpet  of 
golden  pine-needles.  An  enchanted  si- 
lence reigned, — only  the  nightingales 
could  be  heard  from  one  end  of  the  park 
to  the  other.  The  firs  and  jasmines  sur- 
rounding the  house  smelt  so  delightful 
that  Mitya  thought  that  the  former  occu- 
pants of  that  house  had  been  magnifi- 
cently happy.  Suddenly,  with  heart- 
breaking clearness,  he  saw  Katya,  as  his 
young  wife,  standing  on  the  old  terrace, 
among  the  jasmine.  He  felt  his  face 
twist  in  mortal  anguish  and  he  said  firmly 
and  in  such  a loud  voice  that  it  echoed 
from  one  end  of  the  avenue  to  the  other: 

“If  I do  not  have  a letter  within  a 
week,  I shall  kill  myself  1” 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HE  rose  very  late  the  next  day.  After 
dinner  he  remained  upon  the  terrace, 
holding  a book  upon  his  knees;  he  looked 
at  the  pages  covered  with  words  and 
thought  confusedly,  “Shall  I go  to  the 
post  or  not?” 

It  was  very  hot.  Above  the  warm  grass 
and  the  shiny  glass  prickwood  bushes 
pairs  of  white  butterflies  were  chasing 
each  other.  He  watched  them  and  drove 
away  the  flies  which  stuck  to  his  cheek, 
and  asked  himself  again,  “To  go  or  not  to 
go?  Shall  I go,  or  shall  I stop  these 
shameful  expeditions  once  and  for  all?” 

Mounted  on  a stallion,  the  starost  ap- 
peared in  the  frame  of  the  big  gate.  He 
looked  towards  the  terrace  and  then  went 

straight  up  to  it.  When  he  arrived  near 

133 


134  MITYA’S  LOVE 

Mitya,  he  stopped  his  horse  and  blinked. 

“Good  morning.  Always  reading?” 
Smiling,  he  looked  around  him. 

“Is  your  mother  asleep?”  he  asked  in 
an  undertone. 

“I  think  so,”  answered  Mitya.  “What 
is  the  matter?” 

The  starost  was  silent  for  an  instant 
and  then  said  very  seriously,  “Of  course, 
young  master,  I don’t  say  that  it  is  bad 
to  read,  but  there  is  a time  for  everything. 
Why  do  you  live  like  a monk?  Aren’t 
there  enough  women  and  girls  around?” 

Mitya  lowered  his  eyes  without  an- 
swering and  looked  at  his  book. 

“Where  have  you  been?”  he  asked  the 
starost  without  looking  up. 

“At  the  post-office,  and  of  course  there 
was  no  letter,  only  a newspaper.” 

“Why  ‘of  course’?” 

“Why?  Because  somebody  is  writing 


MITYA’S  LOVE  135 


a letter  and  has  not  finished  it  yet,”  an- 
swered the  starost  mockingly  and  crudely. 
He  was  hurt  that  Mitya  refused  to  take 
up  the  conversation.  “Here!”  he  added, 
handing  Mitya  a printed  circular,  and 
spurring  his  horse  he  went  away. 

“I  shall  kill  myself!”  thought  Mitya 
firmly,  looking  at  his  book  without  see- 
ing it. 

But  at  the  same  time  he  felt  a pain  in 
his  side,  as  one  does  when  one  looks 
down  into  an  abyss  from  a great  height. 
It  was  clear  that  the  starost  wanted  him 
to  meet  some  one  . . . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MITYA  could  not  help  seeing  how  ab- 
surd his  resolve  was:  to  kill  himself,  to 
smash  his  head,  to  interrupt  at  one  swoop 
the  beatings  of  his  strong  young  heart, 
to  end  all  thought  and  feeling,  to  become 
deaf,  blind,  to  disappear  from  this  un- 
deniably beautiful  world,  which,  for  the 
first  time,  had  revealed  itself  completely 
to  him,  to  deprive  himself  for  ever  of  any 
part  in  this  life  where  Katya  was,  and 
where  there  was  the  approaching  sum- 
mer, the  sky,  the  clouds,  the  sun,  the  warm 
wind,  the  wheat  in  the  fields,  the  big  vil- 
lages, the  small  ones,  the  girls,  the  estate, 
his  mother,  Anya,  Kostya,  the  verses  in 
the  old  reviews,  and  somewhere,  in  the 

south,  Sevastopol,  the  wonderful  lilac 
136 


MITYA’S  LOVE  137 

mountains  with  their  forests  of  pines  and 
beeches,  the  Tartars,  their  arabas 
whitened  by  a warm  dust,  the  suffocat- 
ing road,  blinding  in  its  whiteness,  the 
gardens  of  Livadya  and  Alupka,  the  hot 
sand  near  the  brilliant  sea,  sunburnt  chil- 
dren and  bathers, — and  again  Katya  in 
a white  dress,  under  a white  sunshade, 
seated  on  the  beach  quite  close  to  the 
splashing  waves.  His  thoughts  made  him 
smile  with  a happiness  quite  ground- 
less . . . 

He  knew  how  absurd  it  was  to  think 
of  death,  but  what  could  he  do?  How 
could  he  flee  from  the  enchanted  circle, 
so  much  more  painful  and  intolerable  be- 
cause he  was  happy  there,  in  spite  of  him- 
self? It  was  precisely  his  happiness 
which  was  unendurable,  this  happiness 
which  the  world  flaunted  at  him  and  in 
which  the  innermost  core  was  lacking. 


138  MITYA’S  LOVE 


He  woke  up  in  the  morning  and  the 
first  thing  which  attracted  his  eyes  was 
the  happy  sun;  the  first  sound  he  heard 
was  the  familiar  ringing  of  the  happy 
bells  in  the  village  church,  down  there 
beyond  the  dew-covered  garden,  full  of 
shade  and  brightness,  of  birds  and  flow- 
ers. Even  the  yellow  wall-paper,  un- 
changed since  before  he  was  born,  was 
full  of  joy  and  charm.  But  at  once  his 
soul  was  torn  with  a spasm  of  ecstasy  and 
fear  : Katya  ! It  was  Katya’s  youth  which 
shone  in  the  morning  sun;  the  freshness 
of  the  garden  was  hers;  the  gaiety  and 
joyfulness  of  the  pealing  bells  was  her 
gaiety  and  joyfulness;  the  old  paper  on 
the  walls  invited  her  to  share  with  Mitya 
the  same  intimate  rural  existence  which 
his  parents  and  grandparents  had  fos- 
tered on  this  estate  and  in  this  house. 

Then  Mitya  would  throw  off  his 


MITYA’S  LOVE  139 


blanket  and  jump  out  of  bed  in  his  night- 
shirt, his  collar  open,  with  his  long  young 
legs,  thin  and  yet  strong,  still  warm  from 
sleep.  Quickly  he  would  open  the  drawer 
of  his  desk,  take  out  the  beloved  photo- 
graph and  fall  almost  into  a trance,  star- 
ing at  it  with  hungry  and  questioning 
eyes.  The  seductiveness,  grace,  mystery, 
brightness  and  charm  of  all  that  is  vir- 
ginal and  feminine  was  concentrated  for 
him  in  that  one  small  rather  serpent-like 
head,  in  her  way  of  doing  her  hair,  in 
her  faintly  provocative  and  yet  innocent 
eyes.  Her  face  shone,  enigmatic  and  gay, 
inevitably  unanswering.  How  and  where 
could  he  find  the  strength  to  bear  this 
face,  so  near  to  him  and  yet  so  far  away, 
and  now  perhaps  for  ever  a stranger  to 
him,  which  had  promised  the  inexpressi- 
ble happiness  of  life  and  which  had  lied 
so  impudently,  so  horribly? 


140  MITYA’S  LOVE 


This  was  the  way  in  which  Mitya  al- 
most always  began  his  day,  and  ended  it 
also,  a prey  to  the  same  tormenting 
thoughts,  to  the  same  heart-rending  and 
contradictory  feelings. 

That  evening  when  on  his  way  back 
from  the  post-office  he  had  gone  through 
Chakovskoé,  the  old  abandoned  estate 
with  the  black  avenue  of  firs,  the  excla- 
mation which  had  slipped  out  so  unex- 
pectedly had  expressed  very  exactly  the 
state  of  extreme  exhaustion  which  he  had 
reached.  While  near  the  window  of  the 
post-office,  looking  down  from  his  saddle 
at  the  post-master  searching  vainly 
through  a heap  of  letters  and  newspapers, 
he  had  heard  behind  him  the  noise  of  a 
train  approaching  the  station;  that  noise 
and  the  smell  of  the  engine  smoke  had  up- 
set him,  bringing  back  to  his  mind  the 
Kursk  Station  in  Moscow  and  his  life  in 


MITYA’S  LOVE  141 
town.  When  he  passed  through  the  village, 
in  each  passing  girl  of  small  stature,  and 
especially  in  the  movement  of  their  hips, 
he  found  something  of  Katya.  In  the 
country  he  met  a troika.  As  it  passed 
rapidly  by,  he  saw  two  hats,  one  a young 
girl’s,  and  he  almost  cried:  “Katya!”  The 
white  flowers  on  the  path  he  associated 
in  his  thoughts  with  Katya’s  white  gloves, 
and  the  blue  flowers  with  the  colour  of 
her  veil  . . . 

As  he  reached  Chakovskoé  at  sunset, 
the  dry  sweet  smell  of  the  pines  and  the 
heavy  perfume  of  the  jasmine  had  brought 
to  his  mind  so  keenly  thoughts  of  the 
summer  and  of  the  life  that  had  once  been 
on  that  rich  and  beautiful  estate  that,  as 
he  had  looked  at  the  red  and  gold  light 
illuminating  the  avenue  and  at  the  house 
which  rose  in  the  background  among  the 
growing  shadows,  he  had  seen  Katya,  in 


142  MITYA’S  LOVE 

all  the  fullness  of  her  feminine  charm, 
coming  from  the  terrace  into  the  garden, 
almost  as  clearly  as  he  saw  the  house 
and  the  jasmine. 

For  some  time  his  image  of  Katya  had 
been  growing  paler.  Each  day  it  ap- 
peared to  him  more  ethereal,  more  trans- 
figured, but  that  evening  the  materialisa- 
tion had  been  so  strong,  so  triumphantly 
compelling,  that  Mitya  had  been  more 
frightened  than  on  the  day  when  he  had 
heard  the  cuckoo  above  him.  And  he  was 
right  when  he  cried  that  he  could  not 
endure  life  like  that  any  longer.  Yes, 
he  must  have  a letter,  whatever  it  might 
contain,  or  else  renounce  her  completely; 
he  must  come  back  to  common  ordinary 
life,  to  vulgar  love;  otherwise  it  would 
be  impossible  and  beyond  his  strength  to 
go  on  living. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HE  stopped  going  to  the  post-office, 
forced  himself  to  give  up  his  expeditions 
there  by  a superhuman  effort  of  his  will. 
He  even  stopped  writing  to  her.  He  had 
tried  everything  in  his  letters;  passionate 
utterances  of  such  a love  as  had  never 
been  seen  in  the  world  before;  humili- 
ating prayers  begging  for  her  love  or 
even  her  friendship;  bold  inventions  rep- 
resenting himself  as  sick  and  writing  from 
his  bed,  in  order  to  draw  her  attention, 
if  only  in  pity.  He  had  hinted  threaten- 
ingly that  all  he  could  do  now  was  to 
free  Katya  and  “his  favoured  rivals”  from 
his  presence  upon  the  earth. 

After  he  had  stopped  writing  and  try- 
ing to  provoke  an  answer  and  had  forced 
himself  to  give  up  hope,  though  still  hop- 

143 


144  MITYA’S  LOVE 


ing  secretly  that  the  letter  would  arrive 
just  when  he  had  deceived  fate  by  a 
feigned  indifference,  he  tried  in  every 
way  to  attain  a real  indifference,  to  think 
no  more  of  Katya,  to  escape  from  her 
power.  He  began  to  go  to  the  village 
again,  to  visit  the  peasants,  to  read  what- 
ever came  within  his  reach,  to  go  on  busi- 
ness to  the  bigger  villages  with  the  starost 
and  to  repeat  all  the  time:  “What  do  I 
care!  Let  fate  decide!” 

One  day  the  starost  and  he  were  com- 
ing back  from  a farm  in  the  droschki  and, 
as  always,  at  a very  rapid  pace.  They 
were  both  seated  as  if  on  a saddle;  the 
starost  was  in  front  driving,  and  Mitya 
was  behind;  the  bumps  jolted  them  both, 
especially  Mitya,  who  clung  to  the  cush- 
ion looking  alternately  at  the  starost’s  red 
neck  and  at  the  fields  flying  past  before 
his  eyes.  As  they  approached  the  house 


MITYA’S  LOVE  145 


the  starost  loosened  the  reins,  letting  the 
horse  amble  along,  rolled  a cigarette  and 
said,  smiling  into  his  open  tobacco  pouch  : 

“You  were  angry  with  me  the  other 
day,  but  you  were  wrong.  Did  I not  tell 
you  the  truth?  Books  are  all  right  and 
one  should  read  a little.  But  they  won’t 
run  away,  and  there  is  time  for  every- 
thing.” 

Mitya  red14'"  ’ id  was  surprised  to 

hear  himself  answer,  with  a feigned  sim- 
plicity and  a wry  smile,  “But,  there  is 
no  one  to  think  about  . . .” 

“What?”  answered  the  starost.  “There 
are  plenty  of  women  and  girls.  You  are 
laughing  at  me!” 

“Girls  are  deceivers,”  continued  Mitya, 
trying  to  speak  as  the  starost  did.  “One 
can  get  nothing  out  of  them  . . .” 

“They  don’t  deceive.  You  don’t  know 
how  to  manage  them,”  said  the  starost 


146  MITYA’S  LOVE 


sententiously.  “And  then,  you  are  stingy. 
You  know,  a spoon  without  anything  in 
it  grates  the  mouth.” 

“He  is  a perfect  idiot,”  thought  Mitya, 
but  still  he  went  on  in  the  same  vein.  “I 
wouldn’t  be  stingy  if  it  were  a sure  thing 
and  worth  my  while  . . .” 

“All  right,  in  that  case,  everything  can 
be  arranged  . . said  the  starost,  light- 
ing his  cigarette,  and,  as  he  was  slightly 
hurt,  he  went  on: 

“I  am  not  thinking  about  your  roubles 
or  your  present,  but  I’d  like  to  please  you. 
I said  to  myself  as  I looked  at  you:  ‘The 
young  master  is  bored!  I can’t  leave  him 
like  that.’  I always  look  after  my  mas- 
ters. This  is  the  second  year  I have  been 
with  you,  and  thanks  to  God,  I never  had  a 
word  of  reproach  either  from  you  or  from 
the  mistress.  There  are  others  who  don’t 


MITYA’S  LOVE  147 

care  so  much  about  their  master’s  cattle! 
If  they  are  fed,  all  right!  If  not,  who 
cares!  I am  not  like  that.  I think  of 
the  cattle  first.  I say  to  the  men:  arrange 
things  any  way  you  like,  but  the  cattle 
must  be  fed.” 

Mitya  thought  that  the  starost  was 
drunk,  but  the  latter  abruptly  changed 
his  tone  of  rough  good-fellowship.  He 
looked  at  Mitya  over  his  shoulder  ques- 
tioningly  and  said: 

“Is  there  any  one  better  than  Alenka? 
A lively  piece,  her  husband  is  at  the 
mines  . . . But,  of  course,  you’ll  have  to 
make  her  a little  present  . . . All  right, 
suppose  you  spend  five  roubles  altogether, 
let’s  say:  one  rouble  for  food,  some  liquor, 
sunflower  seeds  and  mints;  two  roubles 
for  her  . . . and  something  to  me  for  my 
tobacco  . . 


148  MITYA’S  LOVE 


“That’s  all  right,”  answered  Mitya, 
quite  involuntarily,  “only  what  Alenka 
are  you  talking  about?” 

“The  forest  ranger’s  Alenka,  of 
course!”  said  the  starost.  “Don’t  you 
know  her?  The  daughter-in-law  of  the 
new  ranger.  You  must  have  seen  her  the 
other  Sunday  at  church  ...  I thought 
at  once:  ‘She’s  just  what  our  young  mas- 
ter needs.’  She  has  only  been  married 
two  years  and  she  is  very  clean  and  nice.” 

“All  right,”  answered  Mitya,  smiling 
wryly,  “arrange  it.” 

“I’ll  get  busy  right  away,”  said  the 
starost,  gathering  up  the  reins.  “I’ll 
sound  her.  But  don’t  go  to  sleep.  She 
is  coming  with  some  other  women  to-mor- 
row to  mend  the  slope  of  the  garden. 
Come  there.  Your  books  won’t  run  away 
and  you’ll  have  plenty  of  time  to  read  in 
Moscow  . . .” 


MITYA’S  LOVE  149 
He  touched  the  horse  and  the  droschki 
began  to  tremble  and  jolt.  Mitya  clung  to 
the  cushion  for  dear  life  and  tried  not  to 
see  the  starost’s  big  sunburnt  neck.  He  was 
looking  far  away  through  the  trees  in  the 
garden  and  the  willows  which  spread  over 
the  village  hillside  down  to  the  river  and 
the  prairies.  Something  had  happened 
to  him,  unexpected  and  quite  ridiculous 
of  course,  but  at  the  same  time  it  filled 
his  body  with  a feverish  languor.  The 
familiar  steeple  which  rose  before  him, 
its  cross  shining  in  the  setting  sun,  seemed 
quite  different. 


CHAPTER  XX 


ALL  the  girls  called  Mitya  “the  grey- 
hound” because  he  was  so  thin.  He  be- 
longed to  the  type  of  naan  whose  black 
eyes  always  seem  big  and  who,  even  when 
mature,  has  neither  moustache  nor  beard, 
but  only  a few  stiff  and  curly  hairs.  The 
day  after  his  conversation  with  the  starost, 
he  shaved  early  in  the  morning  and  put 
on  a yellow  silk  shirt,  which  brightened 
his  tired  face  and  gave  him  a strange  and 
rather  handsome  appearance. 

He  went  in  the  garden  about  eleven 

o’clock  slowly,  trying  to  look  as  if  he 

were  bored  and  walking  because  he  had 

nothing  better  to  do.  He  went  down  the 

steps  on  the  north  side  of  the  house. 

Above  the  roofs  of  the  stables  and  sheds 

and  that  part  of  the  garden  over  which 
ISO 


MITYA’S  LOVE  151 


the  steeple  of  the  church  towered  there 
was  a kind  of  steely  grey  fog.  All  was 
colourless,  the  air  was  like  the  air  of  a 
furnace  and  the  chimney  in  the  servants’ 
quarter  smelt  fouly.  Mitya  turned 
around  the  house  and  started  towards  the 
avenue  of  limes  looking  up  at  the  top  of 
the  garden  and  at  the  sky.  From  under 
the  vague  clouds  which  came  down  be- 
hind the  garden  a southwest  wind  was 
blowing,  feeble  and  warm.  No  birds 
were  singing,  even  the  nightingales  were 
silent.  Many  bees  were  noiselessly  cross- 
ing the  garden,  heavy  with  honey. 

The  women  were  working  on  the  slope 
near  the  fir-grove.  They  were  filling  in 
the  depressions  and  the  tracks  made  by 
the  animals  with  warm  manure  and  dirt 
which  workmen  brought  from  the  stables 
through  the  avenue;  along  the  avenue  it- 
self were  scattered  wet  and  shining  clods 


152  MITYA’S  LOVE 

they  had  dropped.  There  were  a half- 
dozen  women.  Sonka  was  not  there.  Her 
family  had  at  last  succeeded  in  getting 
her  engaged  and  now  she  remained  at 
home  making  ready  for  her  wedding. 
There  were  some  little  girls,  still  very 
thin,  who  nevertheless  tried  to  look 
grown-up  and  ready  for  anything.  There 
was  the  fat  and  prepossessing  Aniutka; 
there  was  Clachka,  who  appeared  more 
virile  and  rougher  than  ever  and,  of 
course,  Alenka.  Mitya  saw  her  imme- 
diately among  the  trees  and  knew  her  at 
once,  although  he  had  never  seen  her  be- 
fore. In  a flash,  he  was  struck  by  the 
resemblance  he  found  or  rather  thought 
he  found  between  Alenka  and  Katya.  It 
was  so  surprising  that  for  a minute  he 
stopped,  quite  taken  aback.  Then  reso- 
lutely he  went  straight  towards  her,  with- 
out taking  his  eyes  off  her. 


MITYA’S  LOVE  153 


She,  like  Katya,  was  small  and  viva- 
cious. She  was  dressed  very  inappropri- 
ately for  the  disagreeable  work  she  was 
doing;  she  wore  a pretty  white  calico 
blouse,  with  red  polka  dots  and  a patent 
leather  belt,  a skirt  of  the  same  stuff,  a 
little  pink  silk  kerchief,  red  wool  stock- 
ings and  black  felt  slippers.  Her  small 
feet  reminded  him  of  Katya,  as  in- 
deed did  her  whole  attitude,  sometimes 
extremely  feminine,  but  mixed  with  a 
great  deal  of  childishness.  Her  head  was 
small  and  her  eyes  were  of  the  same  shape 
and  almost  as  bright  as  Katya’s.  When 
Mitya  came  near  her  she  was  not  work- 
ing. She  seemed  to  be  conscious  that  she 
was  not  quite  like  the  others.  She  was 
standing  beside  the  starost  on  the  slope, 
her  right  foot  resting  on  her  pitchfork, 
chatting  brightly. 

The  starost,  his  head  propped  upon 


154  MITYA’S  LOVE 


one  arm,  was  lying  under  an  apple-tree, 
smoking,  his  coat  with  the  torn  lining 
spread  beneath  him.  As  Mitya  ap- 
proached, the  starost  politely  sat  on  the 
grass  and  left  the  coat  for  Mitya. 

“Sit  down,  Mitrii  Palytch.  Have  a 
cigarette,”  he  said  in  a friendly  and  de- 
tached way. 

From  beneath  his  eyelids  Mitya  looked 
furtively  at  Alenka.  Her  pink  kerchief 
gave  her  face  a very  pretty  glow.  He 
sat  down  and,  lowering  his  eyes,  lighted 
his  cigarette.  He  had  stopped  smoking 
many  times  during  the  winter  and  the 
spring,  but  now  he  had  begun  again. 
Alenka  had  not  greeted  him,  she  acted  as 
if  she  had  not  seen  him.  The  starost  went 
on  telling  her  things  Mitya  could  not  un- 
derstand as  he  did  not  know  the  beginning 
of  the  conversation.  She  was  laughing, 
but  neither  her  mind  nor  her  heart  seemed 
to  be  in  her  laugh.  Into  each  phrase, 


MITYA’S  LOVE  155 


disdainful  and  mocking,  the  starost  with 
his  rough  voice  was  bringing  obscene  al- 
lusions. She  answered  pleasantly  and  as 
mockingly  as  he,  making  him  understand 
that  in  his  conduct  with  some  girl  or 
other  he  had  acted  stupidly  and  like  a 
brute,  and  at  the  same  time  like  a coward 
afraid  of  his  wife. 

“One  never  has  the  last  word  with  you,” 
said  the  starost  at  last,  stopping  the  dis- 
cussion as  if  he  were  discouraged  by  its 
futility.  “If  I were  not  married,  my  girl, 
I would  have  broken  your  spirit  a long 
time  ago.  Better  mares  than  you  have 
been  tamed!  Come  and  sit  down  beside 
us.  The  master  has  a word  to  say  to  you.” 

Alenka  looked  at  them  sideways, 
smoothed  her  black  curls  over  her  tem- 
ples and  did  not  move. 

“Come  on,  I say!  Idiot!”  exclaimed 
the  starost. 

After  thinking  a second,  Alenka  sud- 


156  MITYA’S  LOVE 

denly  jumped  down  the  slope  and 
crouched  two  steps  away  from  Mitya 
lying  upon  the  coat,  and  looking  gaily 
and  curiously  straight  into  his  eyes.  Then 
she  laughed  and  asked,  “Is  it  true,  young 
master,  that  you  don’t  want  women?  That 
you  live  like  a monk?” 

Mitya  blushed  with  an  embarrassed 
and  painful  smile.  He  looked  at  the  hem 
of  her  skirt  and  at  her  knees  and  was 
silent,  nibbling  a leaf  of  grass. 

“How  do  you  know  he  does  not  want 
women?”  asked  the  starost. 

“I  know  it,”  answered  Alenka.  “I 
have  heard  it.  No,  he  can’t.  He  has 
some  one  in  Moscow,”  she  added,  wink- 
ing suddenly. 

“There  is  no  one  here  who  suits  him, 
that’s  why  he  sees  no  one,”  answered  the 
starost.  “As  if  you  could  understand  any- 
thing about  it.” 


MITYA’S  LOVE  157 


“What,  no  one?”  said  Alenka  laughing. 
“There  are  plenty  of  women  and  girls! 
There  is  Aniutka.  Who  could  be  better? 
Come  here,  Aniutka,”  she  cried  in  a very 
loud  voice. 

Aniutka  turned  around.  She  had  a 
plump  wide  back  and  short  arms,  a very 
comely  face,  an  agreeable  and  very  kind 
smile.  She  shouted  some  words  in  a sing- 
ing voice  and  went  back  with  more  zest 
to  her  work. 

“I  told  you  to  come,”  Alenka  repeated 
in  a still  louder  tone,  pounding  the  earth 
with  her  fist. 

“I  don’t  want  to  come.  I know  nothing 
about  such  things,”  Aniutka  chanted  joy- 
ously. “All  his  fortune  would  not  be 
enough  for  me.” 

“We  don’t  need  Aniutka,  we  have  some- 
body else  in  mind,  better  than  she  is  and 
much  more  elegant,”  said  the  starost 


158  MITYA’S  LOVE 


meaningly.  “We  know  exactly  what  we 
want.” 

He  looked  at  Alenka  very  expressly. 
She  seemed  somewhat  embarrassed  and 
reddened  slightly. 

“No,  no,”  she  said,  hiding  her  confu- 
sion with  a smile.  “You  won’t  find  any- 
thing better  than  Aniutka.  If  you  don’t 
want  her,  take  Nasta.  She  is  very  neat 
and  she  has  lived  in  a town.” 

“That’s  enough,  shut  up!”  said  the 
starost  with  unexpected  roughness.  “Go 
on  with  your  work.  You  have  talked 
enough!  The  mistress  is  complaining 
that  you  are  all  too  lazy.” 

Alenka  rose  very  gracefully,  picked  up 
her  pitchfork,  but  the  workman  who  had 
been  unloading  his  last  cart  of  manure 
shouted:  “Lunch  time!”  and  pulling  the 
reins  sent  his  empty  cart  rattling  down 
the  avenue. 


MITYA’S  LOVE  159 

“Lunch!  Lunch!”  the  women  shouted 
then  in  several  different  keys.  They  threw 
down  their  shovels  and  pitchforks, 
climbed  the  slope,  jumped  down  the  other 
side,  in  a jumble  of  bare  legs  and  highly 
colored  stockings  and  ran  towards  the  fir- 
grove,  each  one  carrying  her  lunch. 

The  starost  looked  at  Mitya  sideways, 
winked  to  indicate  that  the  business 
seemed  to  be  getting  along  well  and  then 
stood  up,  saying  in  a commanding  tone, 
“All  right,  let’s  lunch  . . .” 

Against  the  dark  background  of  the 
firs  the  women  made  bright  spots  of  color. 
They  settled  gaily  and  haphazardly  on 
the  grass,  opened  their  packages  and 
pulled  out  their  lunches,  laying  them  on 
their  skirts  between  their  outstretched 
legs.  They  drank  from  their  bottles, 
some  milk,  some  kvass,  and  went  on 
speaking,  loudly  and  desultorily,  bursting 


160  MITYA’S  LOVE 


into  laughter  at  each  word  and  looking 
all  the  time  at  Mitya  with  provocative 
eyes  full  of  curiosity. 

Alenka  leaned  towards  Aniutka  and 
whispered  in  her  ear.  Aniutka  could  not 
help  smiling,  but  she  pushed  Alenka 
away  with  force.  Alenka,  choking  with 
laughter,  rolled  her  head  upon  her  knees 
and  with  feigned  indignation  said  to 
Aniutka  in  a singing  voice  that  could  be 
heard  all  over  the  fir-grove,  “What  an 
idiot  you  are!  Why  are  you  laughing 
like  that  for  nothing?  Such  fun!” 

“Let  us  flee  from  sin,  Mitrii  Palytch,” 
said  the  starost,  “the  devil  is  tormenting 
them!” 

“Young  Master,”  Alenka  shouted  to 
Mitya’s  back,  “your  advances  don’t  suit 
Aniutka.  She  is  like  a little  girl  and  you 
are  too  much  like  a hermit!” 


CHAPTER  XXI 


IN  the  yard  an  acrid  smell  of  burning 
fat  came  from  the  fire  in  the  servants’ 
quarters.  They  were  having  their  lunch. 
Under  the  windows,  the  dogs,  wagging 
their  tails,  were  begging  humbly  for 
theirs.  Beyond  the  prairies  past  the  river, 
one  could  see  the  grey  drabness  of  the 
village.  It  was  a particularly  dull  day; 
the  air  was  still  heavy,  the  same  floating 
clouds  were  in  the  sky  and  the  same  warm 
and  slight  wind  blew  from  the  south. 

Mitya  went  to  his  room  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  pillow.  He  could  imagine  the 
girls  lying  down  after  lunch  to  sleep  un- 
der the  firs,  in  the  suffocating  warmth, 
their  heads  covered  with  their  skirts, 

tucking  their  bare  feet  under  them. 

161 


162  MITYA’S  LOVE 
Alenka  would  also  lie  down  ...  At 
the  thought  that  he  could  have  her,  now 
that  it  seemed  no  longer  doubtful,  his 
heart  almost  stopped  beating. 

“What  is  the  matter?  What  is  it?” 
Mitya  asked  himself.  “Can  I be  in  love 
with  her  already?  What  about  Katya? 
How  stupid  of  me  to  think  that  she  re- 
sembles Katya  in  any  way!” 

Katya  lived  in  a world  apart,  in  a dif- 
ferent world  with  nothing  prosaic  about 
it,  but  in  spite  of  that  his  throat  was 
choked  with  tears  of  tenderness  and  he 
felt  an  acute  pity  for  her.  He  raised  his 
head.  Outside  the  window  the  wind,  still 
tender  and  soft,  slowly  moved  the  thick 
foliage  of  the  garden  and  its  trees.  The 
branches  were  agitated,  bending  gently. 
There  remained  traces  of  the  spring  and 
of  Katya  everywhere  . . . He  jumped 
from  his  bed  and  sat  down.  His  yellow 


MITYA’S  LOVE  163 
shirt,  his  fear  and  his  drowsiness  made 
his  pale  face  seem  brighter. 

“No,  I shall  send  a telegram  and  go 
to  Moscow!”  he  thought,  absolutely  out 
of  his  senses.  “What  if  all  my  fears  are 
only  imaginary?  Perhaps  my  letters 
have  simply  been  lost.  Maybe  Katya  has 
fallen  ill,  caught  a cold,  gone  to  bed  for 
a few  days?  Anything  may  have  hap- 
pened!” 

But  just  then  Paracha,  with  bare  feet, 
entered  noiselessly,  handed  him  a news- 
paper and  a postcard  and  said,  “Tea  is 
served,”  and  went  out. 

The  card  was  from  Protassov: 

My  dear  Knight  of  the  Mournful 
Countenance,  excuse  the  piggish  silence 
by  which  I have  answered  all  your  letters. 
The  reason  is  very  simple,  exams  and 
total  absence  of  any  news  worthy  of  your 


164  MITYA’S  LOVE 


intelligent  attention.  I have  seen  K.  sev- 
eral times.  She  seems  in  a rather  bad 
humor.  One  of  these  days,  before  going 
to  the  ancestral  halls,  I’ll  write  less 
briefly. 

Mitya  ground  his  teeth  and,  filled  with 
unnatural  mirth,  threw  the  card  upon  his 
desk  and  with  a resolute  step  went  to  have 
tea. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday  and  there 
was  no  one  working  in  the  garden. 

It  rained  heavily  during  the  night. 
The  thunder  made  the  house  shake  and 
the  garden  was  constantly  illuminated  by 
pale  and  fairy-like  lightning. 

But  in  the  morning  the  weather  was 
beautiful  again,  everything  was  simple 
and  happy  and  Mitya  was  awakened  by 
the  gay  and  singing  peals  of  the  church 
bells.  Without  hurrying  he  washed  him- 
self, dressed,  drank  a glass  of  tea  and 
started  to  mass. 

“Your  mother  has  already  gone,”  said 
Paracha  to  him,  affectionately  reproach- 
ful, “but  you  are  a real  Tartar  . . .” 

There  were  two  ways  to  go  to  church: 

165 


166  MITYA’S  LOVE 


across  the  pasture  through  the  gate  and 
turn  to  the  right;  or  else  through  the  gar- 
den by  the  principal  avenue,  and  then  by 
a road  between  the  garden  and  the  thresh- 
ing-ground. 

Mitya  „nt  through  the  garden. 

Everything  looked  summer-like  al- 
ready. Mitya  walked  along  the  avenue, 
straight  towards  the  sun  which  shone 
brightly  on  the  threshing-ground  and  on 
the  fields.  That  brightness  and  the  sound 
of  the  bells  went  well  together,  and  made 
him  feel  at  peace  with  everything  and 
especially  with  that  beautiful  morning. 
The  fact  that  he  had  washed  and  combed 
his  wet  black  hair  and  put  on  his  student 
cap  helped  to  make  him  feel  better,  de- 
spite the  fact  that  he  had  not  slept  all 
night  and  had  turned  about  in  his  head 
a thousand  worrying  thoughts.  He  was 
seized  suddenly  with  the  hope  that  all  his 


MITYA’S  LOVE  167 


troubles  would  have  a happy  ending,  that 
he  would  be  saved  and  delivered. 

The  bells  were  pealing  joyously  and 
were  calling  to  him.  The  threshing- 
ground  shone  brilliantly  in  front  of  him; 
a woodpecker,  raising  his  tuft,  was  hop- 
ping along  the  rugged  trunk  of  a lime- 
tree  whose  light  green  top  was  bathed  in 
sunshine.  On  the  lawns  the  bumble-bees 
of  black  and  red  velvet  disappeared 
slowly  into  flowers.  The  carefree  birds 
were  singing  melodiously  all  through  the 
garden.  Everything  was  as  it  often  had 
been  during  his  childhood  and  his  adoles- 
cence and  recalled  to  him  the  happy  times 
that  were  gone  and  made  him  feel  cer- 
tain that  God  would  be  merciful  and  that 
perhaps  he  could  live  in  this  world,  even 
without  Katya.  Mitya  thought  of  how 
he,  the  young  master,  the  centre  of  atten- 
tion, would  walk  up  the  steps  of  the  cool 


168  MITYA’S  LOVE 

parvis,  of  how  he  would  enter  the  warm 
and  sunny  church,  packed  with  a crowd 
of  women  and  girls  in  their  best  clothes, 
smelling  of  new  calico,  and  how  he  would 
see  the  gold  points  of  the  candles  trem- 
bling in  the  thick  air,  and  hear  the  joyful 
and  discordant  singing  of  the  choir. 

“Indeed,  why  should  I not  go  to  the 
Metcherskys?”  he  thought.  He  smiled, 
at  the  memory  of  their  troika  with  its  best 
harness  stopped  in  front  of  the  church, 
its  small  bells  tinkling,  and  its  coachman 
wearing  a sleeveless  velvet  kaftan  and  a 
plumed  hat. 

He  even  thought  with  all  the  feeling 
appropriate  to  an  eligible  young  man 
about  the  eldest  of  the  Metchersky 
girls.  He  had  been  thinking  about 
her  for  a long  time.  She  always 
treated  him  with  a certain  seriousness 
combined  with  a kind  of  mocking  indul- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  169 


gence,  as  if  she  understood  him  com- 
pletely. She  was  supposed  to  be  a beauty, 
entirely  feminine,  tall  and  queenly  look- 
ing, with  beautiful  hair  and  with  her 
large  but  shapely  hips  covered  by  a close- 
fitting  modish  skirt  . . . 

But  at  this  point,  Mitya  raised  his  eyes 
and  saw  Alenka  going  by  the  gate  about 
twenty  paces  away  from  him.  She  still 
wore  her  pink  silk  kerchief  and  a beau- 
tiful blue  dress  with  flounces  and  new 
high  boots  with  high  heels.  She  was 
walking  quickly  and  gracefully  and  she 
had  not  seen  Mitya.  He  hid  himself 
quickly  behind  the  trees. 

After  letting  her  pass,  he  went  back 
precipitately  to  the  house,  his  heart  beat- 
ing violently.  Now  he  understood  that 
he  had  wanted  to  go  to  church  in  order 
to  see  Alenka  and  he  felt  it  would  not 
be  seemly  to  see  her  in  church. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


DURING  dinner  a messenger  brought 
a telegram  from  the  station.  Anya  and 
Kostya  were  arriving  on  the  evening  of 
the  next  day.  The  news  left  Mitya  per- 
fectly indifferent. 

After  dinner  he  stretched  out  on  a 
reed  couch  upon  the  terrace,  his  eyes  shut, 
feeling  the  heat  of  the  blazing  sun  and 
listening  to  the  flies  buzzing.  His  heart 
was  beating  painfully  and  the  same  in- 
soluble question  was  worrying  him. 
How  would  things  go  with  Alenka? 
When  would  it  be  definitely  settled?  Why 
had  the  starost  not  asked  her  frankly  if 
she  consented,  and  if  she  did,  where  and 
when?  Something  else  also  tormented 
him.  Should  he  break  his  firm  resolve 

170 


MITYA’S  LOVE  171 
not  to  go  to  the  post-office  again?  If 
he  were  to  go  once  more,  for  the  last 
time?  Would  it  be  stupid?  Would  he 
lose  his  dignity?  Or  would  he  only  tor- 
ture himself  once  more  with  a deplorable 
hope?  On  the  other  hand  what  did  it 
matter,  just  à simple  walk  really,  how 
could  it  add  to  his  troubles?  Wasn’t  it 
plain  that  everything  was  over  in  Mos- 
cow? What  else  could  he  lose?  He  had 
only  a week  more!  If  he  proved  able 
during  that  week  to  save  himself  in  some 
way  or  other,  through  sheer  strength  of 
will  or  even  through  that  girl  Alenka, 
all  right.  If  not,  well,  all  the  worse  for 
him. 

Suddenly  he  heard  below  the  terrace  a 
low  voice  saying,  “Young  Master?  Young 
Master,  are  you  asleep?” 

He  opened  his  eyes.  The  starost  was 
standing  in  front  of  him,  wearing  a new 
calico  shirt  and  on  his  head  a brand  new 


172  MITYA’S  LOVE 


cap.  He  looked  contented,  drowsy  and 
slightly  drunk. 

“Young  Master,  let  us  go  quickly  to 
the  forest,”  he  murmured.  “I  told  the 
mistress  I had  to  see  Triphonus  about  the 
bees.  Let  us  go  quickly  while  she  rests, 
or  else  she  might  change  her  mind  when 
she  wakes  up.  We’ll  take  something  to 
Triphonus.  He’ll  soon  be  drunk.  You 
keep  him  busy  talking  and  I’ll  say  a word 
to  Alenka.  Why  let  things  go  on  this 
way?  If  it  is  all  right,  it  is  all  right;  if 
not,  to  the  devil!  We’ll  find  something 
better.  Come  on,  the  horse  is  ready  . . .” 

Mitya  jumped  from  the  couch,  crossed 
the  hall,  took  his  cap  and  went  quickly  to- 
wards the  shed  where  there  was  a 
droschki  to  which  a very  fiery  colt  had 
been  harnessed. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


THE  colt  started  at  a great  pace  and 
passed  the  gate  like  the  wind.  Oppo- 
site the  church  they  stopped  a moment 
at  a shop  and  bought  a pound  of  ham 
and  a bottle  of  vodka.  Then  they  went  on. 

Just  as  they  left  the  village  they  passed 
a house  at  the  door  of  which  stood 
Aniutka  in  her  Sunday  best.  The  starost 
shouted  an  idiotic  joke  in  a brutal  tone, 
then  with  the  stupid  and  reckless  brav- 
ery of  a drunken  man,  pulled  the  reins 
sharply  and  struck  the  colt  with  them. 

The  colt  leaped  ahead.  Mitya  was  al- 
most thrown  out  of  his  seat  and  he  clung 
to  it  with  all  his  might.  The  nape  of  his 
neck  was  smarting  agreeably,  the  heat 
of  the  fields,  the  smell  of  the  rye  blos- 
soming already,  the  dust  of  the  road,  and 
173 


174  MITYA’S  LOVE 


the  smell  of  the  cart-grease  were  all 
brought  to  him  by  the  warm  wind  in  his 
face.  From  the  silver-grey  expanse  of 
the  undulating  rye  the  larks  were  singing 
and  constantly  flying  a little  way  and  then 
returning.  In  the  distance  he  could  see 
the  softly  blue  forest. 

A quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  were 
already  in  the  forest  and  flying  over  roots 
and  stumps.  Rapidly  they  went  through 
the  shady  road  gaily  spattered  with  sun- 
spots. On  each  side  there  were  innumer- 
able flowers  in  the  thick,  tall  grasses. 
Alenka,  in  a blue  dress,  and  still  wearing 
her  high  boots,  was  embroidering  under 
some  green  young  oaks  near  the  ranger’s 
house. 

As  he  passed  in  front  of  her  the  starost 
threatened  her  with  his  whip  and  then 
pulled  up  at  the  threshold.  Mitya  was 
pleased  by  the  fresh  and  bitter  smell  of 


MITYA’S  LOVE  175 
the  forest  and  of  its  young  oaks’  foliage 
and  deafened  by  the  loud  barking  of  the 
puppies  which  were  surrounding  the 
droschki.  Their  furious  clamour  filled 
the  forest  with  echoes,  but  they  were  a 
friendly  breed  and  their  tails  wagged  joy- 
fully. 

Mitya  and  the  starost  jumped  out  of 
the  droschki,  tied  the  colt  under  the  win- 
dows to  a dry  tree  which  had  been  struck 
by  lightning,  and  entered  the  house  slowly 
through  a dark  hall. 

It  was  very  clean,  very  cosy  and  greatly 
encumbered  by  all  kinds  of  furniture.  It 
was  very  hot  because  the  sun  coming  from 
behind  the  forest  shone  straight  into  the 
two  small  windows  and  also  because  the 
oven  was  lighted.  They  had  baked  the 
bread  that  morning.  Theodossia,  Alenka’s 
mother-in-law,  a small  old  woman,  neat 
and  respectable,  with  long  teeth,  was 


176  MITYA’S  LOVE 
seated  at  the  table,  her  back  to  the  sunny 
windows  covered  with  gnats,  her  right 
elbow  in  her  left  hand  and  her  cheek 
resting  in  her  palm.  Seeing  the  young 
master  she  rose  and  made  a deep  curtsey. 
After  the  usual  greetings,  they  sat  down 
and  lighted  cigarettes. 

“Where  is  Triphonus?”  asked  the 
starost. 

“He  is  resting  in  the  cellar,”  answered 
Theodossia.  “I’ll  go  and  get  him.” 

“We’re  getting  on  all  right!”  said  the 
starost  with  a wink,  as  soon  as  the  old 
woman  was  out. 

Mitya  had  not  been  able  to  see  any- 
thing up  till  now.  He  was  horribly  em- 
barrassed. Theodossia  seemed  to  under- 
stand perfectly  why  they  had  come.  He 
felt  ill  at  ease.  Again  the  thought  that 
had  been  worrying  him  for  three  days 
came  back:  “What  am  I doing?  I must 


MITYA’S  LOVE  177 
be  mad!”  He  was  like  a lunatic  who,  un- 
der the  influence  of  some  strange  attrac- 
tion, walks  faster  and  faster  towards  the 
fatal  abyss  which  irresistibly  draws  him, 
or  like  a sick  man  who,  at  his  wits’  end, 
has  resigned  himself  to  an  awful  opera- 
tion said  to  be  absolutely  necessary  and 
the  only  thing  possible  to  save  him! 
However,  he  tried  to  look  calm  and  un- 
concerned and  remained  seated,  smoking 
and  looking  all  around  him.  Above  all, 
he  was  ashamed  at  the  thought  that 
Triphonus,  a peasant  who  was  said  to  be 
both  shrewd  and  intelligent,  would  soon 
come  in  and  that  better  even  than  Theo- 
dossia  he  would  understand  everything 
at  once.  But  at  the  same  time  another 
thought  struck  him.  “Where  does  she 
sleep?  In  that  corner  or  in  the  cellar? 
In  the  cellar,  of  course.  The  summer 
night  in  the  forest,  the  little  windows 


178  MITYA’S  LOVE 


of  the  cellar  without  bars  or  panes,  the 
sleepy  murmur  of  the  trees  and  she,  sleep- 
ing alone,  quite  alone.  Oh,  Katya, 
Katya!  What  on  earth  are  you  doing?” 
he  thought,  full  of  dread. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A FEW  minutes  later  Theodossia  came 
back  and  announced  that  Triphonus  was 
coming.  Then  she  said  to  the  starost, 
“Look  here,  you  are  the  limit.  What 
have  you  been  saying  in  the  village  about 
our  Alenka?” 

The  starost  looked  astonished  and  tried 
to  defend  himself.  A very  disconnected 
conversation  ensued.  Mitya  scarcely  un- 
derstood any  of  it  but  from  what  Theo- 
dossia was  saying  he  could  gather  that 
the  starost  had  offered  to  introduce  a trav- 
elling salesman  to  Alenka,  and  that  he 
had  told  about  it  in  the  village  and  had 
even  hinted  that  Alenka  had  already  ac- 
cepted the  advances  of  the  salesman.  Sud- 
denly they  heard  steps  behind  the  door. 

179 


180  MITYA’S  LOVE 


Theodossia  and  the  starost  stopped  talk- 
ing immediately.  Triphonus  entered  and 
made  a deep  bow  to  Mitya  without  saying 
a word  or  even  looking  at  him.  He  sat 
at  a bench  near  a table  and  spoke  to  the 
starost  in  a dry  and  ill-natured  tone,  ask- 
ing him  what  he  wanted  and  why  he  had 
come.  The  starost  hastened  to  explain 
that  he  was  sent  by  his  mistress,  that  she 
begged  Triphonus  to  come  to  look  at  the 
bee-hives,  that  the  man  who  was  look- 
ing after  them  was  a deaf  old  imbecile, 
while  Triphonus  was  the  only  one  in  the 
whole  province  who  really  understood 
bees.  He  pulled  the  bottle  of  vodka  out 
of  one  of  his  trousers  pockets  and  a piece 
of  ham  in  a greasy  grey  paper  from  the 
other. 

Triphonus  looked  mockingly  at  him  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye  but  rose  and  took 
a tea-cup  from  a shelf.  The  starost 


MITYA’S  LOVE  181 


offered  a drink  first  to  Mitya,  then  to 
Triphonus,  then  to  Theodossia,  who 
drained  it  to  the  dregs  with  evident  pleas- 
ure. At  last  he  poured  one  for  himself. 
After  having  drunk,  he  began  another 
round  at  once,  eating  some  rye  bread  at 
the  same  time  with  grunts  of  satisfaction. 

Triphonus  grew  drunk  quickly  but  he 
did  not  change  his  dry  and  sarcastic  tone. 
After  his  second  cup  the  starost  became 
stupefied.  The  talk  of  the  two  men  as- 
sumed an  air  of  cordiality  but  both  of 
them  kept  their  look  of  malevolence  and 
suspicion.  Theodossia  remained  silent, 
looking  politely  dissatisfied.  Alenka  did 
not  appear.  Mitya  had  lost  all  hope  of 
seeing  her  come  and  he  realised  that  it 
was  a foolish  dream  to  think  that  the 
starost  would  succeed  in  “getting  a word 
with  her”  even  if  she  came.  He  was 
absolutely  convinced  that  their  journey 


182  MITYA’S  LOVE 


was  in  vain  and  that  it  had  only  brought 
shame  and  disgusting  thoughts.  The 
starost  had  simply  become  drunk  and  on 
his  own  account  had  also  made  Triphonus 
drunk  with  Mitya’s  money.  Mitya  rose 
and  said  very  sharply  that  it  was  time 
to  leave. 

“All  right,  but  you  have  plenty  of 
time,”  said  the  starost  sulkily  and  with 
impudence.  “I  want  to  whisper  some- 
thing in  your  ear.” 

“You  can  tell  it  to  me  on  the  way  back,” 
Mitya  answered,  trying  to  control  him- 
self and  he  added  more  sharply  still, 
“Let  us  go!” 

But  the  starost  banged  upon  the  table 
and  repeated  in  the  thick  tones  of  a 
drunken  man,  “And  I tell  you  it  can’t  be 
told  on  the  way  back!  Come  out  an  in- 
stant with  me  . . .” 


“Well,  what  is  it?” 


MITYA’S  LOVE  183 


“Hush!”  muttered  the  starost,  shutting 
the  door  behind  Mitya.  He  was  totter- 
ing, his  eyes  stared  vacantly  and  he  smelt 
strongly  of  liquor. 

“Hush  what?” 

“Hush,  I say!” 

“I  don’t  understand  you.” 

“Hush!  She  will  be  ours.  I am  sure!” 

Mitya  pushed  him  away  and  walked  to 
the  threshold,  not  knowing  what  to  do. 
Should  he  wait  a little  longer,  drive  away 
alone,  or  simply  go  away  on  foot? 

Ten  paces  beyond  the  thick  green  for- 
est was  looming,  already  invaded  by  the 
evening  shadows  which  made  it  still 
fresher,  purer,  and  more  beautiful.  A 
magnificently  clear  sun  was  going  down 
behind  the  trees  through  which  its  red 
gold  irradiated.  And  suddenly  from  the 
depths  of  the  forest,  coming,  it  seemed, 
from  the  other  side  of  the  ravines,  he 


184  MITYA’S  LOVE 


heard  a tuneful  woman’s  voice,  fetching 
and  delightful,  echoing  through  the  trees, 
a voice  such  as  one  hears  only  in  summer 
evenings. 

“Hou!”  the  voice  was  crying,  amusing 
itself  with  the  echoes  of  the  forest.  “Hou  ! 
Hou!” 

Mitya  left  the  threshold  quickly  and 
ran  into  the  forest  through  the  flowers  and 
the  grass.  The  ground  sloped  down  to  a 
stony  ravine.  Alenka  was  there  chewing 
a blade  of  grass.  Mitya  ran  to  the  edge 
of  the  ravine  and  stopped  short.  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  astonishment  in  her 
eyes. 

“What  are  you  doing  there?”  Mitya 
asked  softly,  out  of  breath,  his  heart  beat- 
ing fast. 

“I  am  looking  for  our  Marussia  and 
the  cow.  Why  do  you  ask  me  that?”  she 
said,  also  softly. 

“Well,  will  you  come?” 


MITYA’S  LOVE  185 


“And  why  should  I come  for  nothing? 
Even  if  one  works  by  the  day,  one  is 
paid.” 

“Who  said  you  wouldn’t  get  anything?” 
Mitya  went  on  almost  in  a whisper. 
“Don’t  worry  about  that?” 

“When?” 

“Well,  to-morrow  . . . When  can  you 
come?” 

Alenka  thought  a while.  “To-morrow 
I am  going  to  my  mother’s  to  help  shear 
the  sheep,”  she  said,  after  she  had  looked 
carefully  around.  “In  the  evening,  as 
soon  as  it  is  dark,  I’ll  come.  But  where? 
It  is  impossible  to  use  the  threshing- 
ground,  somebody  might  go  by.  Will 
you  come  to  the  hut  at  the  bottom  of 
your  garden?  Only  don’t  deceive  me.  It 
won’t  be  for  nothing.  This  is  not  Mos- 
cow,” she  added,  looking  up  at  him  with 
laughing  eyes.  “They  say  that  in  Mos- 
cow, the  women  pay  . . .” 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


THE  journey  back  was  disgusting. 

Triphonus,  who  did  not  want  to  be  out- 
done in  politeness,  had  also  produced  a 
bottle  and  the  starost  was  so  drunk  that 
he  could  scarcely  climb  into  the  droschki. 
Finally  he  fell  heavily  into  his  seat  and 
as  the  colt  was  frightened  it  almost  started 
of  itself.  Mitya  kept  silent  and  looked 
indifferently  at  the  starost,  waiting  pa- 
tiently for  the  drive  to  be  finished.  Again 
with  wild  fury  the  starost  made  the  horse 
gallop  like  mad.  Mitya,  still  silent,  held 
on  as  best  he  could,  looking  at  the  evening 
sky,  at  the  fields  towards  the  setting  sun. 
The  larks  were  ending  their  sweet  songs. 
As  night  approached,  the  east,  already 

turning  blue,  was  lighted  by  peaceful  and 
186 


MITYA’S  LOVE  187 


distant  lightning,  infallible  sign  of  beau- 
tiful weather.  Mitya  felt  all  the  charm 
of  the  gloaming,  but  now  it  was  quite  out- 
side of  him.  In  his  thoughts,  in  his  soul, 
there  was  only  one  thing  that  mattered, 
the  next  evening! 

At  the  house,  he  was  told  that  a letter 
had  come  confirming  the  arrival  of  Anya 
and  Kostya  the  next  night  by  the  evening 
train.  He  felt  afraid  that  they  would 
arrive  and  would  run  to  the  garden  in 
the  evening.  Perhaps  they  would  go  to 
the  hut  in  the  ravine.  But  then  he  re- 
membered that  they  could  not  come  from 
the  station  before  nine  and  that  they 
would  be  given  something  to  eat  and  some 
tea. 

“Will  you  go  to  the  station  to  meet 
them?”  asked  Olga  Petrovna. 

He  felt  himself  grow  pale. 

“I  don’t  think  so.  I am  not  very  anxious 


188  MITYA’S  LOVE 

to  . . . and  besides  there  is  no  room  in 
the  carriage.” 

“You  might  ride.” 

“Well,  I don’t  know  . . . What’s  the 
use?  As  I feel  now,  at  any  rate,  I don’t 
want  to.” 

Olga  Petrovna  looked  at  him  keenly. 

“You  are  not  ill?” 

“Not  at  all!”  said  Mitya  almost 
brusquely.  “Only  I am  very  sleepy.” 

He  went  at  once  to  his  room,  lay  down 
on  the  couch  in  the  darkness  and  went 
to  sleep  without  undressing. 

In  the  night  he  heard  slow  music  in 
the  distance  and  saw  himself  standing 
above  an  immense,  dimly  lighted  abyss. 
It  became  clearer  and  clearer,  deeper  and 
deeper,  more  and  more  golden,  more  and 
more  brilliant,  more  and  more  crowded, 
all  the  people  gaily  dressed  and  happy, 
and  very  distinctly,  with  sad  and  poig- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  189 


nant  tenderness,  he  heard  a song:  There 
was  a King  of  Thule  . . . He  shivered 
with  emotion,  turned  over  on  his  other 
side  and  went  back  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE  day  seemed  interminable. 

Like  an  automaton,  Mitya  went  to  tea, 
to  dinner,  back  to  his  room,  back  to  his 
sofa,  took  from  his  desk  a book  which 
had  been  lying  there  for  a long  time,  read 
without  understanding  a word  of  what  he 
was  reading,  looked  long  at  the  ceiling, 
listened  to  the  usual  soft  summery  noises 
of  the  sunswept  garden  outside  his  win- 
dow. Once  he  rose  and  went  to  the  li- 
brary for  a book.  But  that  calm  and 
charming  old  room  and  its  windows,  one 
looking  out  upon  the  venerable  maple- 
tree,  the  other  upon  the  clear  sky  to  the 
west,  recalled  to  him  too  keenly  the  spring 
days  already  distant,  when  he  had  re- 
mained there  happily  reading  verses  in 
old  numbers  of  reviews.  The  room  ap- 

190 


MITYA’S  LOVE  191 


peared  to  him  so  filled  with  Katya’s  pres- 
ence that  he  turned  around  and  walked 
away  very  rapidly.  “To  the  devil!”  he 
thought,  very  irritated.  “Byzantine  eyes! 
Knight  of  the  Mournful  Countenance! 
To  the  devil  with  all  the  poetical  tragedy 
of  love!” 

With  indignation  he  recalled  his  inten- 
tion of  committing  suicide  if  he  did  not 
receive  another  letter  from  Katya.  He 
came  back  to  his  room,  settled  upon  his 
divan  and  took  up  his  book  again.  But 
as  before  he  did  not  understand  a word 
of  what  he  read.  Sometimes,  looking  at 
the  book,  he  thought  of  Alenka,  he  imag- 
ined her  body  and  was  seized  with  trem- 
bling. The  nearer  the  evening  came,  the 
oftener  this  trembling  seized  him,  shook 
him.  The  voices  and  steps  in  the  yard. 
They  were  already  harnessing  the  horses 
to  go  to  the  station.  All  these  faint  sounds 


192  MITYA’S  LOVE 


echoed  ominously,  just  as  during  an  ill- 
ness when  one  is  lying  alone  in  bed,  all 
around  one  ordinary  life  goes  on  regard- 
less of  suffering  and  therefore  strange  if 
not  actually  menacing.  At  last  Paracha 
shouted:  “Madame,  the  horses  are  ready!” 
Mitya  heard  the  dry  tinkling  of  the  in- 
numerable small  bells,  the  stamping  of 
hoofs,  the  noise  of  the  carriage  as  it  came 
up  to  the  steps. 

“Good  God!  When  will  it  all  end!” 
muttered  Mitya,  not  moving  but  boiling 
with  impatience,  as  he  listened  to  the 
voice  of  Olga  Petrovna  giving  her  last 
orders  to  the  servants.  The  bells  began 
to  jingle  again,  louder  this  time;  then 
their  tinkling  was  lost  in  the  noise  of  the 
carriage  going  down  the  hill.  This  faded 
away  in  the  distance  and  everything  was 
quiet. 

Mitya  rose  quickly  and  went  to  the 


MITYA’S  LOVE  193 


drawing-room.  It  was  empty  and  bright- 
ened by  the  rays  of  the  clear  yellowish 
setting  sun.  All  the  house  was  empty, 
strangely  empty.  With  a peculiar  feel- 
ing, as  if  he  were  bidding  them  good-by, 
Mitya  looked  at  the  silent  rooms  open- 
ing one  into  the  other,  the  small  drawing- 
room, the  boudoir,  the  library  whose  win- 
dow opened  on  the  south  to  the  dark  blue 
horizon  of  the  evening,  towards  the  pic- 
turesque top  of  the  green  maple  above 
which  was  shining  the  rosy  point  of  An- 
tares.  Then  he  looked  into  the  hall  to 
see  if  Paracha  were  there.  Being  con- 
vinced that  there  was  no  one,  he  took  his 
cap  from  the  rack,  ran  back  to  his  room 
and  jumped  out  of  the  window,  his  long 
legs  carrying  him  far  out  on  the  lawn. 
He  stood  there  a moment,  then  ran  into 
the  garden  and  crossed  it  by  a small  path 
overgrown  with  lilac  bushes. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AS  there  was  no  dew  the  smell  of  the 
garden  could  not  have  been  very  strong. 
Yet  it  seemed  to  Mitya,  in  spite  of  his 
insensibility  that  night,  that  never  in  his 
life,  except  perhaps  when  very  young,  had 
he  smelt  such  powerful  and  varied  odors. 
With  uncanny  keenness  he  sensed  the 
acacias,  the  lilac  leaves,  gooseberry 
bushes,  burdock,  wormwood,  the  flowers, 
the  grass  and  even  the  soil. 

After  walking  a few  steps,  he  thought 
sadly,  “Suppose  she  should  not  come,  sup- 
pose she  was  playing  with  me!”  Now  it 
seemed  to  him  that  all  his  life  depended 
on  Alenka’s  coming  ! Among  all  the  smells 
of  vegetation  he  recognised  the  evening 
smoke  from  the  village  hearths.  He 

stopped  and  turned  around  for  an  instant. 

194 


MITYA’S  LOVE  195 

A beetle  buzzed  somewhere  near  him,  as 
if  it  were  sowing  silence,  peace,  and  twi- 
light. It  was  still  quite  light  from  the 
setting  sun  which  filled  half  the  sky  with 
the  long  uniform  rays  of  the  early  sum- 
mer twilight,  while  above  the  roof  of  the 
house,  half  hidden  among  the  trees,  shone 
the  pointed  crescent  of  the  new  moon  high 
in  the  transparent  emptiness  of  the  sky. 

Mitya  looked  about,  hurriedly  made  a 
small  sign  of  the  cross  upon  his  breast 
and  entered  an  avenue  bordered  by 
acacias.  The  path  led  to  the  ravine  but 
not  to  the  hut.  To  get  to  it  he  had  to 
bear  more  to  the  left  so  he  broke  away 
from  the  avenue,  over  the  bushes,  among 
the  wide-spread  branches  of  the  apple- 
trees,  sometimes  bending  under  them, 
sometimes  parting  them.  A second  later, 
he  was  at  the  trysting  place. 

Full  of  fear,  he  entered  the  hut,  whose 


196  MITYA’S  LOVE 


darkness  smelt  of  dry  and  rotten  straw. 
He  glanced  around  keenly  and  saw,  al- 
most with  joy,  that  she  was  not  yet  there. 
But  the  crucial  moment  was  approaching 
and  he  remained  near  the  hut,  all  ears 
and  all  attention.  During  the  day  an 
extraordinary  physical  emotion  had 
gripped  him.  Now  it  had  reached  its 
climax.  But  now,  strangely  enough,  just 
as  earlier  in  the  day,  this  emotion  seemed 
a thing  entirely  apart  from  himself,  to 
have  taken  possession  only  of  his  body  and 
not  of  his  soul.  His  heart  was  beating 
violently  while  everything  else  was  so  as- 
tonishingly silent  that  Mitya  heard  only 
the  beating  of  his  heart.  Silently  and 
tirelessly,  delicate  colourless  butterflies 
flew  lightly  among  the  branches,  through 
the  grey  foliage  of  the  apple-trees  which 
stood  out  irregularly  against  the  evening 
sky.  The  butterflies  made  the  silence 


MITYA’S  LOVE  197 
seem  deeper,  as  if  they  had  charmed  and 
enchanted  it. 

Suddenly  something  crackled  behind 
him,  and  the  noise  struck  him  like  a 
thunderbolt.  He  whirled  around  and 
peered  into  the  trees  in  the  direction  of 
the  slope;  and  he  saw  something  black 
coming  towards  him  under  the  apple 
branches.  Before  he  had  time  to  realise 
what  it  was,  that  dark  shadow  running 
towards  him  waved  to  him  boldly:  it 
was  Alenka. 

Her  head  was  covered  by  her  skirt, 
she  pulled  it  down  and  he  saw  her  fright- 
ened face  brightened  by  a smile.  She 
was  barefooted,  and  wore  only  a skirt 
with  a chemise  of  unbleached  linen,  un- 
der which  he  could  see  her  young  breasts. 
Everything  about  her,  from  her  small 
head  covered  with  a yellow  kerchief  to 
her  small  bare  feet,  mature  yet  at  the 


198  MITYA’S  LOVE 


same  time  childlike,  was  so  lovely,  so 
attractive,  that  Mitya,  who  heretofore 
had  seen  her  only  when  carefully  dressed 
and  now  saw  her  for  the  first  time 
adorned  only  by  the  charm  of  simplicity, 
was  inwardly  very  much  surprised. 

“Quick!”  she  whispered  gaily  and  fur- 
tively, and  then,  after  looking  all  around, 
she  disappeared  into  the  sweet-smelling 
darkness  of  the  hut. 

There  she  stopped  for  a minute  while 
Mitya,  his  teeth  clenched  so  that  they 
would  not  chatter,  quickly  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket, — his  legs  were  stiff, — 
and  slipped  a crumpled  five-rouble  note 
into  her  fingers.  She  hid  it  away  quickly 
between  her  breasts  and  sat  down  upon 
the  ground.  Mitya  sat  beside  her  and 
put  his  arms  around  her  neck,  not  know- 
ing what  to  do.  Should  he  kiss  her  or 
not?  The  scent  of  her  kerchief,  the 


MITYA’S  LOVE  199 


aroma  of  her  hair,  the  intoxicating  odor 
of  her  body  mixed  with  the  smell  of  the 
isba  and  smoke,  all  was  delightfully  pleas- 
ant, Mitya  knew,  but  he  knew  also  that 
the  irresistible  force  of  his  physical  desire 
could  not  be  transformed  into  spiritual 
desire,  into  ecstasy,  into  bliss,  into  a self- 
absorbing languor.  She  stretched  and  lay 
down  upon  her  back.  He  lay  beside  her, 
pressed  himself  against  her  and  reached 
out  his  hand.  With  a deep  nervous  laugh, 
she  seized  it  and  pushed  it  aside. 

“That’s  forbidden!”  she  said,  and  he 
could  not  tell  whether  she  spoke  seri- 
ously or  jokingly. 

She  kept  Mitya’s  hand  tightly  closed 
in  her  own  small  hand,  her  eyes  looking 
through  the  triangular  door  frame  of  the 
hut  at  the  branches  of  the  apple-trees  and 
at  the  red  point  of  Antares,  still  lonely. 
What  did  her  eyes  express?  What  should 


200  MITYA’S  LOVE 

he  do?  Kiss  her  on  the  neck,  upon  her 
lips?  Suddenly,  she  said  quickly: 

“All  right  . . .!” 

When  they  rose,  Mitya  was  already 
weary  with  disillusionment.  While  she 
arranged  her  kerchief  and  smoothed  her 
hair  she  asked  him  in  an  animated  mur- 
mur, as  if  he  were  her  lover: 

“I  have  been  told  that  you  have  been 
at  Subbotino.  I hear  that  the  priest  there 
sells  his  young  pigs  quite  cheap.  Is  it 
true?” 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ON  Saturday  of  that  same  week  the 
rain,  which  had  been  continuous  since 
Wednesday  night,  was  still  falling  hard. 

The  downpour  that  day  seemed  heavier 
and  the  sky  blacker  than  ever.  All  day 
long  Mitya  walked  ceaselessly  in  the  gar- 
den, crying  so  hard  that  he  himself  was 
astonished  at  the  energy  and  the  abun- 
dance of  his  tears. 

Paracha  kept  looking  for  him,  shout- 
ing in  the  yard,  in  the  avenue  of  lime- 
trees,  calling  him  for  dinner  and  then  for 
tea,  but  he  did  not  answer  her. 

The  cold  was  damp  and  penetrating 
and  heavy  clouds  darkened  the  sky; 
against  their  dark  background  the  green- 
ness of  the  garden  was  by  contrast  ex- 
201 


202  MITYA’S  LOVE 

ceedingly  fresh  and  bright.  From  time 
to  time  a sudden  gust  of  wind  sent  from 
the  trees  a new  shower,  a deluge  of  drops 
of  rain.  But  Mitya  saw  nothing,  paid  no 
attention.  His  white  cap  became  a dirty 
grey,  his  student  coat  became  black,  his 
high  boots  were  splashed  with  mud  to  his 
knees.  Wet  through,  cold,  without  a drop 
of  blood  in  his  face,  with  mad  eyes 
swollen  with  tears,  he  was  a sight  to  be- 
hold. 

He  smoked  cigarette  after  cigarette, 
walking  with  long  steps  in  the  mud  of 
the  avenues,  sometimes  wandering  aim- 
lessly, without  following  any  path 
through  the  tall  wet  grasses,  among  the 
apple-  and  pear-trees,  knocking  against 
the  greyish  green  sponge-like  moss  on 
their  twisted  and  rough  branches.  He 
sat  on  the  dark  benches,  soggy  with  the 
rain,  he  went  into  the  ravine  and  stretched 


MITYA’S  LOVE  203 


out  on  the  wet  straw  in  the  hut,  in  the 
same  place  where  he  had  lain  with 
Alenka.  The  cold,  the  icy  dampness  in 
the  air,  had  made  his  big  hands  blue,  his 
lips  and  his  sunken  cheeks  were  violet, 
his  face  deadly  pale.  He  remained  lying 
upon  his  back,  one  leg  crossed  over  the 
other,  his  hands  under  his  head,  looking 
with  haggard  eyes  at  the  roof  of  dark 
thatch  from  which  fell  big  rusty  drops 
of  rain.  Then  his  jaws  tightened,  his  eye- 
brows twitched.  He  rose  suddenly  and 
pulled  out  from  his  trousers  pocket  a 
dirty  and  crumpled  letter,  which  he  had 
already  read  a hundred  times  since  he 
had  received  it  the  day  before,  late  in 
the  evening.  It  had  been  brought  by  a 
land-surveyor  who  had  come  on  business 
to  the  estate.  For  the  hundredth  and  first 
time,  he  devoured  it  avidly: 

“My  dear  Mitya,  don’t  bear  a grudge 


204  MITYA’S  LOVE 


against  me . Forget , forget  everything 
that  has  happened!  I am  a bad  and 
wicked  woman,  I am  corrupt,  I am  un- 
worthy of  your  love,  my  very  dear  one, 
but  I love  art  passionately.  I have  de- 
cided, the  die  is  cast,  I am  going  away — 
you  know  with  whom — you  are  so  sensi- 
tive, dear,  so  intelligent,  you  ll  understand 
me.  I beg  you,  do  not  torture  yourself 
and  do  not  torture  me!  Don’t  write  to 
me,  my  dear  love,  it  is  useless!” 

When  he  reached  this  passage,  Mitya 
crumpled  the  letter  furiously,  fell  upon 
his  side,  his  face  buried  in  the  wet  straw, 
clenched  his  teeth  with  rage  and  choked 
with  sobs.  This  unexpected  “my  dear 
love”  in  such  a letter  recalled  to  him  their 
intimacy  so  vividly  and  even  seemed  to 
re-establish  it  so  that  it  filled  his  heart 
with  an  unbearable  tenderness.  And  just 
beside  that  “my  dear  love,”  the  firm  dec- 


MITYA’S  LOVE  205 
laration  that  it  was  henceforth  useless  to 
write  to  her,  even  to  write!  Yes,  yes,  he 
knew  it;  it  was  useless!  Everything  was 
over!  She  had  fallen,  she  was  soiled  for 
ever,  without  hope  of  forgiveness!  And 
his  complete  impotence  was  as  boundless 
as  was  his  love,  his  tenderness,  and  his 
disgust  at  the  thought  of  her! 

Towards  evening  the  rain  fell  upon  the 
garden  with  renewed  violence  and  a sud- 
den peal  of  thunder  drove  him  at  last  to 
the  house.  Wet  through,  his  teeth  chat- 
tering, his  body  in  the  grip  of  an  icy 
shiver,  he  looked  through  the  trees  to  be 
sure  that  nobody  could  see  him,  then  ran 
to  his  window,  opened  it  half-way, — it 
was  an  old-fashioned  window,  only  the 
lower  part  of  it  could  be  raised, — and 
jumping  into  his  room,  locked  the  door 
and  threw  himself  upon  his  bed. 

The  darkness  came  quickly.  He  heard 


206  MITYA’S  LOVE 


the  pattering  rain  everywhere,  upon  the 
roof,  around  the  house  and  in  the  garden. 
Indoors  the  noise  was  double  that  in  the 
garden,  for  near  the  house  the  noise  of 
the  rain  was  mixed  with  the  gurgling  and 
the  chattering  of  the  gutters  as  they 
poured  their  waters  into  the  puddles.  As 
Mitya  fell  into  a lethargic  stupor,  the 
sound  of  the  rain  combined  with  the  fever 
burning  in  his  veins  and  the  throbbing 
in  his  head,  created  in  him  an  inexplica- 
ble numbness  and  plunged  him  into  a kind 
of  drowsiness  which  seemed  to  create  an- 
other world  for  him.  It  was  still  night- 
fall but  he  seemed  to  be  in  another  house, 
a strange  one,  in  which  something  terrible 
was  taking  place. 

He  knew  that  he  was  in  his  room,  dark- 
ened already  by  the  rain  and  by  the  ap- 
proaching night,  that  not  very  far  away 
from  him,  from  the  drawing-room,  came 


MITYA’S  LOVE  207 

the  voices  of  Anya,  Kostya  and  the  sur- 
veyor at  the  tea-table,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  was  walking  in  an  unknown  draw- 
ing-room behind  a young  serving  girl  who 
kept  getting  away  from  him.  He  was 
seized  with  a growing  fear,  mixed,  how- 
ever, with  desire  and  with  a presenti- 
ment of  some  person’s  intimacy  with  an- 
other, an  intimacy  in  which  there  was 
something  monstrous  and  infamous,  but 
in  which  he  participated  up  to  a certain 
point.  He  seemed  to  understand  all  this 
through  the  intermediary  of  a child  with 
a large  white  face  (the  child  was  also  a 
painting  on  the  wall),  whom  the  young 
servant  had  in  her  arms  and  was  rocking. 
Mitya  kept  trying  to  pass  her.  After  he 
had  finally  passed  her  he  wanted  to  look 
at  her  face.  Wasn’t  it  Alenka?  Sud- 
denly he  found  himself  in  his  study  at 
college  with  the  panes  covered  with  chalk, 


208  MITYA’S  LOVE 


but  the  girl  standing  beside  the  chest  of 
drawers,  near  the  mirror,  could  not  see 
him  for  he  had  become  invisible.  She 
wore  a petticoat  of  yellow  silk  clinging 
to  her  round  hips,  small  shoes  with  high 
heels,  very  transparent  black  stockings 
which  showed  her  flesh,  and  she  was 
voluptuously  shy  and  modest.  She  knew 
what  was  going  to  happen.  She  had  had 
time  to  hide  the  child  in  one  of  the 
drawers. 

Throwing  her  hair  over  her  shoulder, 
she  braided  it  quickly,  occasionally 
glancing  sideways  at  the  door,  then  look- 
ing at  herself  in  a mirror  which  reflected 
her  delicate  powdered  features,  her  bare 
shoulders,  her  small  milky  breasts  with 
the  pink  points.  The  door  opened  and 
a gentleman  in  a smoking  jacket  with  a 
smoothly-shaven  face  and  curly,  short, 
black  hair  entered,  turned  around  with 


MITYA’S  LOVE  209 


an  air  of  assurance,  pulled  out  his  flat 
gold  cigarette  case  and  began  to  smoke 
with  perfect  composure.  While  she  fin- 
ished braiding  her  hair,  she  looked  at  him 
shyly,  knowing  his  intentions,  then  threw 
her  braid  over  her  back.  He  seized  her 
condescendingly  around  the  waist  and  she 
nestled  against  him,  hiding  her  face  on 
his  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


MITYA  came  back  to  himself,  bathed 
in  sweat,  realizing  with  an  awful  clear- 
ness that  he  was  lost,  that  this  world  was 
so  dreadful,  so  sombre,  that  even  hell,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  tomb,  could  not  be 
worse.  It  was  very  dark  in  the  room. 
Outside  the  window,  he  could  hear  the 
water  splashing  and  rippling  and  that 
noise  was  unbearable  to  his  body  shaken 
by  tremors.  But  most  unbearable,  most 
horrible  of  all  was  the  monstrous  infamy 
of  that  human  contact  that  he  had,  in  some 
way,  shared  with  the  gentleman  of  the 
shaven  face.  From  the  drawing-room 
came  the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter. 
They  also  were  monstrous  and  horrible, 
in  so  far  as  they  were  strange  to  him,  in 

so  far  as  they  were  part  of  life  with  its 
210 


MITYA’S  LOVE  211 

brutality,  indifference  and  implacabil- 
ity ..  . 

“Katya!”  he  said,  sitting  up  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  his  legs  dangling  over  the  side 
— ’“Katya,  what  is  the  matter?”  he  said 
aloud,  absolutely  sure  that  she  would  hear 
him,  that  she  was  there,  and  that  if  she 
were  silent,  it  was  because  she  was  her- 
self crushed  and  understood  the  horror 
of  what  she  had  done,  even  if  she  did  not 
answer,  that  she  knew  her  action  was  ir- 
reparable and  inseparable  of  herself. 
“Ah,  Katya,  what  does  it  matter?”  he 
muttered  bitterly  and  tenderly,  meaning 
that  he  would  forgive  her  everything  as 
long  as  she  would  throw  herself  in  his 
arms  as  she  used  to  ; so  long  as  they  could 
be  saved  together;  so  long  as  their  beau- 
tiful love  could  be  kept  alive  in  that  mag- 
nificent spring  world,  which  so  recently 
had  been  like  paradise  ! But  having  mur- 
mured: “Katya,  what  does  it  matter!”  he 


212  MITYA’S  LOVE 

knew  at  once  that  he  could  not  say  that 
it  did  not  matter;  there  was  no  salvation, 
no  return  to  the  marvellous  vision  which 
had  been  given  to  him  at  Chakovskoé  on 
the  terrace  covered  with  jasmine,  there 
never  could  be;  and  slowly  he  cried  tears 
of  sorrow  which  tore  his  heart. 

His  pain  was  so  dreadful,  so  unbear- 
able that  without  knowing  what  he  was 
doing,  unconscious  of  what  might  come 
out  of  that  sorrow,  he  had  only  one  pas- 
sionate desire,  to  be  rid  of  his  suffering, 
never  to  find  himself  again  in  the  fright- 
ful world  he  had  lived  through  that  day; 
in  which  he  had  lived  the  most  awful  and 
horrible  of  all  earthly  dreams.  With  a 
trembling  hand  he  felt  for  the  drawer  of 
the  night  table,  opened  it,  seized  the  cool 
and  heavy  mass  of  his  revolver,  and  utter- 
ing a deep  and  joyful  sigh,  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  with  all  his  strength,  joy- 
fully, calmly,  he  pulled  the  trigger. 


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